


Children of the Revolution

by Sansculotte



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, What Have I Done, also everyone dies, also jsyk Grantaire is not a major character but he does make a cameo, and the musical and everything that's just how it works everyone dies in Les Mis i'm sorry, because they don't interact and i love subtext, but it is, but youd have to really read into it, if you tilt your head and squint you can see ExR, it's based off canon, its kind of sad um, its like from behind a door, its not very obvious abuse, sorry - Freeform, that's not a spoiler because it's in the book, thats weird, there might be triggers for abuse idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-02-14 13:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2193486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sansculotte/pseuds/Sansculotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cesaire Jacque was six years old when he met Enjolras on his first day of school.<br/>He was twenty-six years old when he shot Enjolras on the last day of the June Rebellion.<br/>(This is the story of Enjolras’s childhood best friend, who then grew up to lead the attack on the barricade.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We'll Change the World

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah as you've guessed this is about Enjolras and his best friend. It is canon-era, and I know everyone seems OOC but I was trying to make them seem different when they're kids and it just didn't work? I'm sorry. Enjoy this. Beta'd by [Hannah](iprefermymealsdead.tumblr.com).  
> 

_In my need, you have always been there.  
_

 

**Prologue: June 6th, 1862 - Une Maison à Paris**

 

His hair was gray and he had a limp.

He didn't have a cane, though it looked painful to step; more likely an injury than age, as he was only fifty-six and looked otherwise fit. You might think he was poor if not for the fact that the house he was in, his house, was three stories high.

He walked, or rather, limped, across his room and sat down at a writing desk with several pages of paper, a light blue envelope, and a red quill. He looked at the grandfather clock to the left of the desk. Seven twenty-nine. He looked out the window at the top of the wall. His eyes were bleak, as if he had stared into the center of the universe and found it disappointing.

This man was a man who had lived long and seen things he didn’t want to and done things he wished he hadn’t, and everything he just wanted to forget, but he wouldn’t. Not this time. Because he was stronger. And he had to remember, for their sake. He refused to allow any one of those men to fade from history the way every other dead fool has. It was already his fault that they died. He wasn’t going to do any more damage.

And maybe this wasn't the best thing to do, because rather than simply keeping the memory alive, in the thirty years since that day he had allowed the memory to consume him. There was nothing else in his life now except those people and those days, but he was strangely alright with that.

He could have given up back then. He could have run. He could have forgotten. For anyone else he would have. For everyone else he has.

He had always wanted to be a poet, but he never had a story before.The clock struck seven thirty and he slowly started to write.

 

_Do they remember?_

_The shots in the night?_

_The blood on the streets_

_At the end of the fight?_

 

Eight o'clock.

 

_No one else knows._

_No one recalls._

_All the men who fought here_

_The ones who stood for us all._

 

Eight thirty.

 

_But I remember every moment._

_I recall every cry._

_I know what happens_

_When you're bold enough to try._

 

Nine o'clock.

 

_I write you these letters._

_Though I guess you don't see._

_And I don't think you'd care_

_So I write them for me._

 

Nine thirty.

 

_Because I tried to forget._

_Believe me I did._

_But you can't erase some things_

_I learned that as a kid._

 

Ten o'clock.

 

_You learned it too._

_You learned it with me._

_We learned of the world_

_And who we wanted to be._

 

Ten thirty.

 

_I remember those times._

_And I'll never forget._

_From the last time I saw you_

_To the day that we met._

 

Eleven o'clock.

 

_So I've been writing it down._

_Every year on this day._

_To make sure the memory_

_Will be here to stay._

 

Eleven thirty.

 

_I inscribe it in ink_

_And paint the picture anew._

 

Eleven fifty-eight.

 

_No one else remembers._

 

Eleven fifty-nine.

 

_But I do._

 

**September 7th, 1812 - Une École à Paris**

 

It was during role call on his first day at a brand new, very expensive _école primaire_ that Cesaire first heard the voice of his best friend.

“Benoît?”

“Here.”

“Cécile?”

“Here.”

“Jamal?”

“Present.”

Cesaire glanced around at who he could see from the front row. Every other boy and girl had their head down on the desk or was playing with their quill and trying not to fall asleep from the droning voice of their _cours préparatoire_ teacher.

“Frédéric?”

“That is _not_ my name.” Mme Lumois paused and very very slowly looked up so that she could see the boy who was, apparently, _not_ Frédéric.

“Excuse me?” she asked in a tone that was not to be questioned.

“I said my name isn’t Frédéric.”

Mme Lumois smiled in what Cesaire thought was a very evil way; it looked like she had been planning to murder not-Frédéric and her plot was beginning to unfold, he thought.

“If you are not Frédéric, then come tell me, who is?”

Cesaire did not dare a glance around the room to see what not-Frédéric looked like, so he had to imagine a dark-haired man with a mustache. Except all the boys in the room were six years old. So maybe he wouldn’t have a mustache.

“I do not know. Someone else. Not me. I hate that name.”

Mme Lumois gave the evil grin again. “Well, in my school, your name is Frédéric. If you speak out again you will recieve detention.”

Not-Frédéric mumbled something like, "Not fair," but kept silent after that.

After school ended, the rich little day-boys began pouring outside into the Parisian streets. Many loving mothers were there to accompany their sons home; Cesaire’s was not. He turned left, walked two blocks, right, ran one block, right again, skipped one-

Cesaire crashed headlong into a blonde-haired child about his age. Cesaire would have said the child was in his class, but it was rather hard to tell if the child was a girl or boy. It felt rather rude to ask, so Cesaire just mumbled, “I'm sorry.”

“It’s quite alright,” said the other child primly, and it was now clear that he was a boy, and also the boy from this morning - _not-Frédéric_!

“Oh! You’re . . . um . . . well . . . no, you’re not Frédéric, are you. . . .”

Not-Frédéric set his shoulders back and lifted his chin. “No I am not. Who are you not?”

Cesaire thought this was a ridiculous question. “Well . . . I’m not . . . um . . . Frédéric either?” He said it almost as a question, _I’m not Frédéric, right? I do hope not._

“Are youÉloi?”

“No. . . .” Cesare was fairly certain that the boy was only doing this to irritate him.

“Benoît?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You are not Amadour, are you?”

“Oh, no, I suppose not.”

“Good.”

“Do you not like him?”

“I don’t even know anyone named Amadour.”

“Neither do I.”

The boy smiled. "What is your name?”

“Cesaire Jacque, who are you?”

The blonde boy seemed to be thinking hard. “I am not sure, to be perfectly honest. Let’s go with not-Frédéric for now.”

“That sounds good. Where do you live, not-Frédéric?” Cesaire asked, trying to make conversation.

“My house is down that street” -he pointed to the left- “where is yours?”

“Mine’s over there too. We could walk home together?” Cesaire said hopefully. He was hoping to have a friend.

“Two is safer than one, isn’t it? Let’s go together.”

Cesaire smiled for the first time all day. He smiled every day after school as he walked home with his new friend. They talked a lot. Cesaire learned that not-Frédéric's parents had a lot of money, and he had no brothers or sisters. Cesaire told him how his father worked a lot so he too made a lot of money; he was so busy that Cesaire could not remember the last time they had a proper conversation. But he was very nice. He told him how his mother was always sick. Cesaire said, "Mother is nice. She sleeps a lot, so I do not talk to her much. But she said she loves me." His house was always quiet.

Not-Frédéric said his father was nice, "but he calls me Frédéric even though that is not my name. He says I am not allowed to change my name. He says it was chosen for me by my parents and I ought not to question their judgement. He says I should not question people of authority, but what if they are wrong?" Cesaire liked his ideas of how things could be better, and he liked how unlike most people, not-Frédéric focused on how to fix it instead of complaining about everything that was wrong. He wished there was something they could do to change it.

"I bet there is something," said not-Frédéric one day as they walked the third block home. "Something we could do."

"Like what?" Cesaire asked curiously.

Not-Frédéric thought about this. "I am not sure," he decided finally. "But I will someday."

Cesaire listened to not-Frédéric’s rambling and ranting with interest. Not-Frédéric was smart, he thought, and someday he would change the world.

“We will do it together, Cesaire,” not-Frédéric said one day as they skipped stones in the river. Cesaire sat back and looked at him. “Me and you, _mon ami_. We’ll free the country. We’ll change the world.”

 

**January 16th, 1815 - La Maison de Cesaire**

 

Cesaire had a cat. He had found it on the streets, by the gutter during the rain, soaking wet and flea-ridden. He took pity on it and brought the cat home. Now it lived outside for the most part, but he fed it table scraps in the evenings and it slept on his porch. It was an orange tabby cat, a female, and her name was Angel.

One day, she didn’t come to get food at 18h30 like she did every other day, and after looking for half an hour, Cesaire found her behind his house, except she wasn’t alone. Angel had kittens.

The first person Cesaire thought to tell about this was not-Frédéric. He dashed to his friend’s house and told him of the great news. Not-Frédéric snuck out and went with Cesaire to see the kittens.

There were two kittens, a male and a female; the tom was orange and his sister was black, and they decided to each name one. Not-Frédéric named the boy Adelwine, and Cesaire called the girl Francille.

Cesaire never thought to mention to his father that there were kittens living behind their house, until two weeks later, when his father sat down at the table where Cesaire was doing his homework and stared at him.

Cesaire slowly looked up. “Yes Father?”

His father looked aggravated. “Would you like to explain something to me?”

Cesaire had a feeling he knew what this was about. “Uh . . . I suppose.”

“Why are there three cats behind the house?”

“Cats?”

“Yes, Cesaire, three cats. There are three cats living behind our house.”

“I have no idea why that could be.”

“You don’t know why those cats are sleeping on one of your blankets? And why they have a saucer, one of _our_ , and when I say our I mean _my_ , saucers, of milk?”

“Oh, you mean those cats,” he said awkwardly.

Cesaire’s father threw his hands up in exasperation. “Yes, those cats!”

“Right, yes, well you see, I would have told you. . . .”

“But you forgot? You forgot to tell me you’d picked up a street cat and her children?”

“Yes . . . but Father, it’s alright, I only give them scraps and they live outside!” Cesaire knew his father would want to get rid of the cats, but he couldn’t, not these cats, and what would he tell not-Frédéric?

“No. Absolutely not. They are vermin, and you will treat them as such. They’re animals, Cesaire, not people.”

“But-”

“I told you my opinion. I’m getting rid of them.”

“Please-”

“The matter is settled.”

Cesaire nodded solemnly, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop his father.

He waited in his room but refused to cry. They were cats, after all, nothing to get emotional about, as he told himself again and again.

A few minutes later his father came upstairs. “Cesaire, I think you need to learn a lesson.”

“Not the chamberpots!”

“No, no, a different kind of lesson.” They both shuddered to remember the time Cesaire had been punished with the job of emptying the chamberpots into the sewer and ended up spilling the contents on the floor in the kitchen. “You will drown the littlest ones.”

“Father I can’t!”

But his father just shook his head. “You need to clean up your own messes and fix your own problems. Why should I get water on my trousers because you decided to keep a stray animal as a pet?”

“No-”

“They have to die, Cesaire, wouldn’t you rather do it yourself?”

Cesaire stayed silent for a moment before nodding and going downstairs and outside. There was a large bucket of water on the porch and the kittens had been left next to it. They were crying for their mother.

Cesaire took a deep breath and picked up Francille then closed his eyes tight and plunged her into the water. He wanted to plug his ears too but then he wouldn’t have enough hands to keep the cat under. When she stopped struggling, he fell on the ground.

“Sorry,” he muttered to no one in particular because he knew the remaining cat couldn’t understand him

He looked at Adelwine. It was so much more difficult to have to drown this one because this one belonged to not-Frédéric. It wasn’t his to destroy, and he knew his friend would be upset. But his father would know if he didn’t, and he couldn’t bring Adelwine to not-Frédéric’s house to live because it still needed its mother. There was no way it would survive, between starvation and cold and Cesaire’s father. He had no choice but he still felt the need to contemplate it, as if to prove he cared, before he put Adelwine under the water too.

At school the next day, Cesaire turned to not-Frédéric during _déjeuner_ and said, “My father found the cats.”

Not-Frédéric gasped. “Oh no, what did he do?”

Cesaire paused for a moment, thinking this over. “He - um - he sent them away.”

“Away?”

“To a new home.”   

“With who?”

“My - uh - cousin.” Cesaire had no cousin.

“Can we visit them?”

“No! He’s um - really far away. In the countryside. On the other side of France. And he doesn’t like visitors. Or people. Or talking. Or writing. He hates interaction in general,” Cesaire explained hastily.

“Oh.” Not-Frédéric looked disappointed. “Well, at least they will be happy.”

Cesaire nodded, his throat was closed up the way it does when you try not to cry, except he wasn’t sad, he was guilty.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some French terms if you weren't sure:  
>  _Maison_ \- house  
>  _École_ \- school  
>  _École Primaire_ \- the equivalent of elementary school, primary school  
>  _Cours Préparatoire_ \- the equivalent of first grade  
>  _Déjeuner_ \- lunch


	2. Whatever You Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Like a child who is lost in a wood._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really short but it's something.

**March 12th, 1815 - Une École à Paris**

 

A few months after the cat incident, when Cesaire watched not-Frédéric walk into his mansion of a house, he saw an old lady greet him at the door, and this was odd, Cesaire thought, because usually the only person there to greet not-Frédéric was his mother.

Cesaire decided to casually mention the old woman during their third class of the day.

“So I noticed an old woman at your door the other day.”

Not-Frédéric looked up. “That was my grandmother.”

Cesaire nodded, then asked, “Has she always been there?”

Not-Frédéric gave him a funny look. “No, she moved in with us two days ago because she says she wants to take care of me.”

“I see.” He nodded a few more times. “Is she nice?”

“Yes, actually,” not-Frédéric said, “she’s much nicer than Father even. We went on a walk yesterday, she’s very interested in birds. And books. She pointed out all the different birds to me as we walked, then we went to an old man’s house who had lots of books, and they talked forever. It was rather boring, all those hours in the dusty room, but there were some good stories in some of the books.” He sounded a lot more enthusiastic now.

“I thought you didn’t like books.”

“Books are okay. Some are entertaining, but I just don’t see the point in spending all that time reading when you could be doing something,” not-Frédéric explained, shrugging.

“It’s kind of meditative. Relaxing. I like reading,” Cesaire mused.

“I suppose.” At this moment, the teacher neared them and they could talk no more for fear of being reprimanded.

 

**March 15th, 1815 - La Maison de Not-Frédéric**

 

Cesaire went to not-Frédéric’s house a few days later and was finally able to meet his grandmother. She had white curly hair and dark brown eyes, and she wore a blue dress and smelled of lilacs, and she was very, very nice. She made them food and then listened intently as not-Frédéric, with some interjections from Cesaire, told her about their day. What Cesaire liked most about not-Frédéric’s grandmother was that she made it seem like she wouldn’t rather be anywhere else than here, listening to two little boys summarize their day at school.

He wanted to visit the dusty room of books where the old man lived, the one that not-Frédéric told him about, but not-Frédéric’s grandmother said she was too tired to walk all the way there. When Cesaire suggested taking a carriage, she just shook her head.

“Carriages are too modern, too loud and clangy and awkward,” she explained. “Walking is just so much more lovely and peaceful, if only my legs were strong enough to do that every day.”

Cesaire nodded, thinking how he and not-Frédéric walked home rather than take a carriage, even though their families could afford it. She was right, carriages were nothing like walking, they were very . . . metal. Sheltered. Closed. Cesaire liked being free to walk, even if it was slower. So he agreed to go another day, and then he came back, and together he and not-Frédéric’s grandmother - who was revealed to be named Rose - walked to the book house. She told him about the different types of birds as they walked and showed him the sketches she had done of a few of the prettier birds.

Finally they reached a small stone house covered in vines, a house so small Cesaire thought it must be the tiniest house in Paris. They entered and he almost ran to the books, pulling out a book of fairytales he had never heard of almost immediately.

“Those are by Charles Perrault,” said a voice behind him. Cesaire jumped and looked to see the old man not-Frédéric had described. “People don’t like his stories much, they think they’re only for children and old men. But as I have lived to be both,” he said smiling, “I enjoy them very much. I think you will too.”

Cesaire nodded and sat down to read. The old man picked out another book from the other side of the room and started reading as well. Normally this would make Cesaire feel awkward, reading with someone else in the room, but somehow it felt comfortable, even when Rose entered as well and pulled out a book of flowers.

He had just finished the first story, _Le Petit Chaperon Rouge,_ when Rose came into the room and said it was time for them to leave.

“Can I come back?”

Rose smiled. “That’s for you to choose. I’m sure Monsieur Mabeuf wouldn’t mind?”

The old man, apparently called Mabeuf, shook his head. “Come in any time and read, it’s fine with me.”

So he did. Cesaire finished Charles Perrault’s fairytales (his favorite was _Le Chat Botté_ ), then he started reading books about clouds and magical children and the sun and old writers. Monsieur Mabeuf himself had written a book about trees, and Cesaire had told him he would buy it, but he never remembered to bring money. Then after a few months, Cesaire started coming less, and less and less until two years later when he stopped reading at M. Mabeuf’s home at all. He forgot about it for a long time.

 

**September 18th, 1816 - La Maison de Cesaire**

 

One day, sometime near the beginning of their first year of _collège_ , not-Frédéric made a decision while they were sitting in the study at Cesaire’s manor.

“I’m not going to be called not-Frédéric anymore.”

Cesaire looked up from his textbook. “You want to be Frédéric now? I thought you hated that name.”

“I do,” snapped the blonde boy who did not have a name at the moment. He sat straighter. “I’m going by my last name.”

“Your last name?”

“Yes. I cannot be called not-Frédéric forever, it will seem very childish when I am older.”

“It is funny though,” Cesaire said off-handedly, not quite as enthusiastic about this abrupt name-change as his friend.

“Funny will not get me anywhere.”

“I don’t see how your name has to do with you getting places.”

Cesaire’s newly named friend lifted his head from his book as well. “It is my name, Cesaire, and it’s not my fault if you do not like change.”

Cesaire flinched. “No, no, change is fine,” he said hastily.

“So you will use my new name?”

“Of course. I will - I will support you in whatever you do.”

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” He paused. “Enjolras.”

 

**October 14th, 1816 - Une École à Paris**

 

A few weeks after this conversation, Cesaire came to school wearing all black. He did not tell Enjolras why, so Enjolras stopped asking, but he knew he would have to tell his best friend eventually.

Enjolras realized what happened. Cesaire never said anything, but one day his blonde friend marched up to him first thing in the morning and gave him a somewhat awkward hug and said nothing more. Cesaire didn’t like physical contact much and neither did Enjolras, but however awkward the hug was, it made Cesaire feel better. His mother was gone, but he had his friend.

 

**November 14th, 1819 - Une Rue à Paris**

 

The third year of _collège_ , the pair became a trio when they met Hugon.

Enjolras was walking home with Cesaire just as they had done for the last seven years when he stopped. “I met someone today,” he said suddenly.

“Was she pretty?” Cesaire asked with a grin.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “No.”

“So she was ugly?”

“No!” Enjolras looked annoyed, but Cesaire had known him long enough to know there was nothing to fear from his icy glare. “ _He_ was just a polite boy I met today during religion class, he sits next to me and we had similar - political opinions.”

“A match made in heaven right there.”

Enjolras sighed and ignored him. “His name is Hugon, I think he will be a good friend and helper to our cause.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some French terms if you weren't sure:  
>  _Le Petit Chaperon Rouge_ \- Little Red Riding Hood  
>  _Le Chat Botté_ \- Puss in Boots  
>  _Collège_ \- the equivalent of middle school/junior high  
>  _Rue_ \- street, road


	3. My Friends I Apologize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nobody shouts or talks to loud._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a few days, sorry. Here you go. There's a bit of a trigger warning for abuse, but it's a trigger for me too so it's not explicit at all.

**March 4th, 1820 - Paris, France**

One day, for the first time ever, their trek home was different.

“Can I stay at your house tonight?”

Cesaire glanced at his friend. “Might I ask why?” Enjolras sighed and looked ahead so that Cesaire could not see his face very well. “Never mind, you do not have to tell me.”

Enjolras sighed again, his shoulders slumping a bit. “No, it’s alright. I had a row with my parents this morning, I do not quite want to go back there yet.”

Cesaire nodded. “Then it would be fine.” He wanted to ask what they fought about, but did not want to upset Enjolras any more.

Enjolras used one of their guest rooms and went to sleep on time, but when Cesaire went downstairs to get some water, he could hear his friend muttering things out loud at midnight.

The next day, they walked home and when they approached Enjolras’s house, Enjolras stopped. He looked at the door and then at the street as if contemplating something. Cesaire stayed silent until Enjolras turned to him and said, “Would it be alright if I went to your house again?”

Cesaire opened his mouth and closed it again, then said, “Yes, that would be alright by me.”

He did not ask questions and Enjolras did not offer an explanation. The night was normal and after school the next day Enjolras went to his own home. He said nothing when they approached his house, nor did he stop again, but Cesaire thought he heard him mutter a few words to himself before squaring his shoulders as though bracing himself for something and walking through the garden and up the steps to the big door with the brass knocker.

Cesaire, being slightly concerned for his friend, did not leave immediately to go to his own house. He waited outside on the street and listened.

First he heard nothing, and he went to the door and pressed his ear up against it to better hear what was going on. A few minutes later, he caught raised voices, one of a woman and then, a minute later, a controlled voice that was unmistakably Enjolras. There was yelling for a few moments, the woman sounding angry, Enjolras like he was trying very hard to keep himself from blowing up with rage, then there came the shattering of something glass. Cesaire desperately wanted to run inside and help his friend fight whatever peril he was facing, but his better judgement won over and he stayed put.

After the glass broke the woman began shrieking and Enjolras was yelling as well, and this continued for at least a minute while Cesaire fought his instincts and did not open the door. Suddenly Enjolras stopped yelling and something hit the door from the other side. Cesaire jumped backwards in surprise and fell, hitting his head on the stone steps behind him.

He made an inhuman noise in pain and shock, then lay on the ground feeling dizzy. He vaguely heard the shrieking stop abruptly, then someone stumbling and falling up the stairs. Then the door opened.

A woman with a dark blue dress made of what appeared to be velvet appeared in the doorway. Her dress was fringed with lace and she wore a silver locket around her neck and her eyes were a lovely shade of light blue, but this was where the beauty stopped. The woman had black hair that stuck out on all sides, her skin was ghostly pale, and her face was like that of something that should have died years ago. A vein was pulsing on her forehead as she stared down at Cesaire with anger.

She shrieked, “You!” and Cesaire, brought back to life by the high-pitched yell, scrambled to his feet, grabbing the railing for support as his head was spinning.

“Sorry, I just-” he tried to explain, but the woman ignored him and began screaming furious nonsense once again, her eyes slightly insane. Cesaire began to back away but he stumbled. His head hurt and he couldn’t tell what she was trying to communicate, but he didn’t think it was very nice.

Someone was banging on the window upstairs, Cesaire heard desperate yelling but he couldn’t tell who it was or what they were saying, because the woman was so loud and his ears were ringing from the noise or hitting his head, he couldn’t tell which.

Cesaire knew he should leave, he should get out of there as fast as possible for his own safety, but the only fully formed thought in his head was that he couldn’t leave Enjolras to face her alone. The banging on the window above him got louder and the woman got angrier and he tried to grab the other railing for support but there was only one railing and he was holding on to it with his left hand and suddenly there was a slapping noise and his face hurt and the voice upstairs sounded like it was crying now and then he held up his hand.

“Wait,” he breathed, and the woman miraculously stopped, staring at him with confused, hateful, drunken eyes. The shouting upstairs had stopped too, but it might have stopped a minute ago, for Cesaire didn’t know how long he had been standing there after being slapped. Then he could hear feet landing on the floor inside as though they had flown down the stairs and Cesaire vaguely heard Enjolras shouting “Get out of here now, Cesaire, please!” from inside and he didn’t want to but Enjolras was telling him to, and he had said please. Cesaire nodded and backed down the stairs holding his head, then turned away and walked through the garden to the street and towards his own house. In his concussed daze he heard a door slam and a thud then all was silent.

 

**March 5th, 1820 - Une École à Paris**

 

The next day Enjolras was not in school. Cesaire felt oddly alone, even with Hugon in his classes; the ever-present empty seat in between them felt wrong. Hugon was a wonderful friend, but he was uptight and he laughed less and he focused on schoolwork and didn’t appreciate Cesaire’s jokes.

Cesaire wanted to very much to go to Enjolras’s house to check on him, but he knew better, and the bump on his head was there to remind him.

 

**March 6th, 1820 - Une École à Paris**

 

Enjolras was there the next day, and Cesaire was relieved but confused, because Enjolras had his hair swept down over one eye, did not take his coat off all day, and he wore a red silk scarf around his neck. He kept his head down and didn’t talk in class.

During déjeuner, Enjolras did not eat nor even talk until Cesaire glanced at him and his coat and scarf and said pointedly, “It’s really hot in here.”

Hugon looked at Enjolras to see his reaction as their blonde friend opened the one eye they could see and sighed, sitting up straight for the first time that day. He paused as though thinking about what to say next before facing them and saying curtly, “My friends, I apologize for my unexplained absence and my odd behavior these past few days, but please know I have a good reason - a reason I am not up to sharing at this time. Please do not question me on the matter again.”

Cesaire and Hugon stared at him. Enjolras always spoke a bit pompously, but he was never quite this formal and distant.

“Right, sorry,” Cesaire said hastily. “We will not - erm - question you again.”

Enjolras nodded graciously but slowly, as though it was painful to do so. “Thank you.”

The rest of lunch was awkwardly silent, because Enjolras did not start any conversation, and Hugon and Cesaire felt it would be polite to be as quiet as possible for the sake of their troubled friend.

Enjolras kept his odd clothing and hairstyle for two weeks, then he came in wearing only the scarf. Everything seemed to go back to normal between the three of them, with Enjolras complaining about everything and Hugon nagging Enjolras about doing schoolwork every day and Cesaire quietly trying to lighten the mood whenever possible.

 

**April 9th, 1820 - Une École à Paris**

 

About a month after the incident, someone pulled off Enjolras’s scarf.

They, meaning Hugon, Cesaire, and Enjolras, were walking to the school cantine to eat when Enjolras let out a yell and put a hand over his now-bare neck so they could not see the left side. The three of them spun around to see a short boy with messy dark hair who Cesaire knew to be called Vivien holding the scarf. Cesaire reached for it, but Vivien pulled his hand back and ran. Cesaire glanced at Enjolras, who was staring after the boy maliciously but not daring to move, and Hugon, who kept looking from Enjolras to Vivien uncertainly, as though unsure whether it was worth it to chase after him.

Seeing that neither of them were going to run after the boy with the scarf, Cesaire felt that the task fell to him, and he dashed after Vivien.

“Can’t catch me!” Vivien teased, standing on the other side of the lobby room dangling the scarf in the air.

Cesaire, taking this as a challenge, charged, and Vivien did not move, only smiled at him. He was about the grab the scarf when Vivien jumped out of the way, laughing as Cesaire almost crashed into the wall.

Frustrated, Cesaire spun around and grabbed Vivien’s arm roughly.

"Whoah!”

Vivien seemed surprised that Cesaire would do such a thing, so Cesaire used this to his advantage and grabbed his other arm.

“Give it back,” he ordered.

Vivien looked at him for a moment then said, “You know . . . I would have given it back if it was so important . . . and I still would now . . . but you see, Monsieur,” he continued with a grin, lowering his voice to a whisper, “I do not really have any arms left that I can hand it to you.”

Cesaire blinked at him then sighed and let go of his arms. Vivien straightened up, dusted off his clothes with a fake pompous look, and handed him the scarf.

“Thank you,” Cesaire said awkwardly.

“Pleasure was mine.”

Cesaire turned back towards where he had left Hugon and Enjolras, walked about ten feet, then stopped and turned around.

“What are you doing.”

Vivien paused. “I am marching.”

“Do not follow me.”

“Forgive me Monsieur, but I wish to apologize to your blond friend myself.” Vivien said, doing a quick fingernail buff to look like he was of the upper crust.

“You . . . what?”

“I want to apologize. I had no idea this scarf was that important to him.”

“Yes . . . well . . . it is.”

“Great. I’ll just come with you then.”   

There was no good excuse for him not to come, so Cesaire turned around and continued down the hall where Hugon was standing outside a supply closet. When they arrived, he took the scarf from Cesaire and threw it into the closet.

“Thank you Cesaire.” He then looked at Vivien. “You took the scarf?”

“It was only a joke,” Vivien muttered, glancing at the ground. At this moment, Enjolras stepped out of the closet with his scarf tied neatly again.

“There you are!” Vivien jumped a bit and grinned again. “Sorry about your scarf.”

Enjolras took a moment to stare at Vivien as the boy rocked back and forth slightly as though he had too much energy to contain, then said primly, “That is quite alright.”

Vivien grinned and clapped his hands. “Great! Now can I eat lunch with you?”

Hugon and Cesaire stared at him then looked to Enjolras for an answer. “I suppose so,” Enjolras said slowly, ending the sentence as if it were a question.

The short boy in front of them was practically bouncing now and seemed more excited than Cesaire himself could ever recall feeling. The four of them continued towards the cantine where they sat and ate together. Vivien turned out to be a lot more than a ball of energy - well, he was definitely that, but he could turn his energy into more than stealing people’s scarves. When Hugon brought up one of Enjolras’s favorite debate topics, Vivien was in fact even more passionate about it than Enjolras, and ended the conversation by knocking Cesaire’s glass of water onto the floor.

“Oh no,” Cesaire groaned, picking up the broken glass and sighing at the water on the ground.

“Dreadully sorry!” Vivien yelped, jumping off his chair to pick up the glass and mop the water with a hankerchief.

Cesaire hadn’t really liked Vivien much to begin with, mostly because of the scarf episode, but they grew to become great friends and by the end of _collége_ , Vivien was officially part of their little group. When they entered _lycée_ they thought nothing would change.

 And nothing did, for a while. Enjolras and Cesaire still walked home together rather than take a carriage like their other upperclass friends; Enjolras wanted to be “closer to different people”, and they liked to talk. Hugon and Cesaire spent all their time studying while Enjolras insisted he had “better things to do” and he must have been smarter than them, Cesaire supposed, because he never studied but he never failed.

Enjolras had stopped wearing the scarf around his neck a while ago, and Cesaire could see a large but faint scar on the left side. Now Enjolras wore the red silk around his waist, simply, Vivien said, “because it was fashionable.”

They talked and joked and laughed and thought never, ever to be parted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some French terms if you weren't sure:  
>  _lycée_ \- The equivalent of high school


	4. Fly No More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But the tigers come at night..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eh, this is kind of weird.

**Febuary 19th, 1821 - La Maison d’Enjolras**

Cesaire wondered, after that day at Enjolras’s house when he had hurt his head, why Enjolras would stay there, with his mother, why he did not say something.

“Because she’s not like that all of the time,” Enjolras said. “She’s rather lovely when she isn’t all, you know . . . drunk. We get along well.” He shrugged. “And besides, what could anyone do about it?”

Cesaire had to admit this was a point, and he kept in mind that Enjolras’s mother was not always bad whenever he glanced behind at his friend entering that house every day. Hopefully she wouldn’t be bad today. Hopefully Enjolras would not need to buy another scarf anytime soon.

But he never had another scarf, and once when Cesaire spent the afternoon at Enjolras’s house, he met Enjolras’s mother, and she was wearing a neat dress and her hair was in a high bun. She told Cesaire to call her by her first name, which was odd, but Cesaire did as she said and called her Aurelie. She was polite and kind and seemed, as Enjolras had said, perfectly lovely, but Cesaire noticed that her eyes were blank, and her smiles were hollow. He saw, a few months later, in the house, an old portrait of a younger Aurelie, perhaps from twenty years before, and she looked marginally different.

Her hair was the same, as well as her height and body shape, but her eyes were different. They were . . . happy. Cesaire thought she looked hopeful and carefree in the portrait, but perhaps in the years since this was painted something had changed, something that made her unable to smile properly anymore.

One day Enjolras showed up at Cesaire’s house in the evening and said his mother was badly drunk. Cesaire immediately thought of that woman in the doorway who had screamed at him and hit Enjolras, but Enjolras said it was different. She wasn’t crazy like then, she didn’t say anything to him besides that she was sick of everything and was going to the bar.

“She left, and I ran here. Father is working until late tonight and I do not know what to do.” Had it been anyone else talking to him, Cesaire would have thought they’d be crying, but Enjolras was too strong for that.

Cesaire thought this through for a moment. “Do you know which bar she went to?”

“No, but probably one nearby, she was walking.”

“We could check all the places within walking distance and see if-”

But Enjolras cut him off, shaking his head. “No. Even if we found her, we would only get ourselves hurt trying to stop her doing whatever she is going to do.”

Cesaire sighed, frustrated. “Then what do you want from me?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I suppose . . . I wanted to tell someone in case . . . in case something happens,” he said.

“You wanted a friend.”

Enjolras looked up at him. “Yes. I wanted a friend.”

 

**Later that Night - La Maison d’Enjolras**

 

After two hours of Cesaire studying and Enjolras reading one page of a book while biting his fingernails, Cesaire stood up. “Perhaps we should go to your house and see if she’s back.”

Enjolras looked terrified at the thought but nodded. “Good idea.”

They walked in silence to the stone manor then stood outside the door. The two friends glanced at each other for a moment before entering.

The landing was empty, but Enjolras’s father was in the kitchen reading.

Enjolras saw his and skidded into the room. “Father, is Mother here?”

“No,” he said without interest.

“Did she tell you where she went?”

“I have not seen her since last night,” he said, shutting his book. “What is this about?”

“She left earlier - a few hours ago - I think - and she was . . .  drunk and - maybe. . . .” the words tumbled out of Enjolras very awkwardly.

Enjolras’s father looked mildly confused. “What do you want me to do?” Enjolras looked speechless.   

“Please, sir,” Cesaire said, stepping slighly in front of Enjolras, “if you could - find her, that would help.“

M. Enjolras sighed. “You said she went to a pub?”

“Well I would guess -”

“I willl be back soon, stay here.” He walked past them and left the house.

Cesaire looked at Enjolras. “I guess we wait.”

Enjolras swallowed and nodded. “Do you want tea?”

“I - yes, of course.”

Enjolras boiled tea and Cesaire sat at the table tapping his foot. They drank tea in silence then stayed in their chairs for a while, both not sure what to say to break the silence until the silence was broken for them by the front door opening. Cesaire saw, in the halflight of candles, that Enjolras tensed immediately, his eyes not moving from the dining room doorway.

Enjolras’s father entered the room, his face blank and unrevealing. Then he took a breath and told them of the last three hours.   

 

**Earlier that night - Un Pub à Paris**

 

Aurelie sat down on the dusty barstool and ordered two bottles of wine. That should be enough, she thought, then turned her head as though looking for someone. To her left, a dark-skinned, burly man sat down.

“Oh!” she said, smiling. “And who are you?”

The man didn’t answer, and at this point the bartender handed Aurelie two full bottles. She opened one and took a sip, then tried again. “Come here often?”

“Not really,” he answered gruffly.

“Ah. Do you, uh, want some wine?”

He looked up at her. “Not especially.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Ah,” she said again. They were silent while Aurelie slowly finished off her wine. “So - so if you don’t come here very often, that is, what are you doing here now?”

“Just thinking.”

She laughed with a hiccup. “That doesn’t make sense?”

“Neither do you at the moment, lady.”

“Right. Right, yes. I guess not.” She paused. “I’m thinking too.”

He nodded without much interest.

“Are you going to ask?”

“Ask what?”

“What it is I’m thinking.”

“Um, what are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking - well I can’t explain - I - you - you can't imagine what it’s like - in my head. Everything just . . . overlaps and mixes together and I can't think right. Sometimes I think I’m going insane . . . can I choose that?” She looked at him for answers.

“Choose what?”

“To go insane.”

“I think it just happens.”

“I want to. To choose to go insane. I think it’d be - it would - be easier. To not face it. Everything. I’d like to not be real.”

“Not real?”

“Not . . . exist. But not like . . . dead. I don’t want to die. But I don’t want to live either.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“No, no, I guess you’re right. . . .” She nodded a few times, trailing off, then spun around and punched the tall man she’d been talking to.

“Whoah!” Aurelie wasn’t very strong, but he was surprised.

“Did that just happen?”

“I’d say. Don’t hit me again.” She slapped him. “Careful, lady, I don’t have to be nice.”

“Yes,” she said excitedly, “yes!” And she hit him again.

“That’s enough!” he yelled, shoving her away, and she fell off the stool.

“You can’t hurt me!” Aurelie yelled back, her mood suddenly changing to fury, finding her balance again. “You can’t hurt me! I’m already gone, I’m not here so it doesn’t matter, go ahead, try and kill me, you can’t kill a ghost, I -” She hit him again, and the man grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, just once, and she stopped. Everything seemed to be silent, the bar was noisy and crowded and everything was silent as everyone continued talking, and the man released her and Aurelie fell to the ground, to fly no more.

 

**Returning to le Maison d’Enjolras**

 

“She is dead,” his father said flatly. “That man was huge, he broke her neck with the force.” He shook his head. “She died drunk.”

Enjolras nodded and stood up. “I am going to walk Cesaire home.”

“That will be fine,” his father replied.

Cesaire was still for a moment before he jumped up. “Right. Um, goodbye,” he said awkwardly to Monsieur Enjolras. “Sorry for your loss.”

Enjolras’s father nodded and politely thanked Cesaire, but he didn’t seem very sad at all.

“Let’s just, uh, go. I need to be getting back around now.”

Enjolras nodded in agreement and they left.

As they walked down the street, Cesaire wasn’t sure what to say. “Enjolras. . . .”

"No.” Cesaire looked at him, and Enjolras shook his head again, his eyes trained on the ground. “Don’t bother. You don’t need to say anything.”

Cesaire nodded. “All right. But I did have one question . . . your father. . . .”

Enjolras almost laughed. “He doesn’t care about her, he never did. She loved him and he only married her for the money. When I was about three years old, he found some other woman, and told my mother that he never loved her. She was heartbroken, tried to drink her sorrows away, it’s been an addiction ever since.” He sighed. “I guess she must never have really loved him that much in the first place, if she was so quick to hate him.” Cesaire didn’t agree but made no comment. “So now they both hate each other . . . or . . . they did.”

Cesaire looked at his friend to see a tear rolling down his face.

“She - I know she wasn’t the best mother in the world. She wasn’t all that great of a person either, but . . . I’m still sad. Why am I sad, Cesaire?” He stopped walking to look at Cesaire with hopeless eyes. “She didn’t really talk to me, she was always drunk. She physically hurt me once. I should be happy that she’s gone. Why can’t I be?”

Cesaire considered this. “Because no matter what she was like as a person, she was part of your life. And now that part is gone, and everything will change.”

“You cannot possibly understand.”

“I don’t claim to understand, but I do care.”

Enjolras looked up at the sky, and Cesaire followed his gaze to see the stars, only a few visible with the streetlamps everywhere. They stood there for a few minutes, both thinking.

Cesaire thought of his own mother, how when she had died he had felt the opposite. This was a woman who loved him, she had told him once. But he hadn’t been allowed in her room, she was too sick and the doctors didn’t know if it would spread. He spoke to her a total of five times because of this, exactly five, he had counted, so he didn’t know what she was like. When she died, he had felt sorry, and he’d dressed in black because that’s what he was supposed to do. But he didn’t have that heartwrenching sadness that should have come with his mother passing away. She wasn’t part of his life, and when she died, nothing changed. Maybe when we grieve for a loved one, he thought, we’re not grieving that they are dead, we’re just grieving for our old life that will never be the same again because a part of it is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some French terms if you weren't sure:  
>  _Pub_ \- Bar, pub


	5. To Die By Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's only in my mind._

**June 3rd, 1821 - La Maison d’Enjolras**

 

"Where is Rose?”

“Rose?”

“Your grandmother.”

“I know who she is. She doesn’t live here anymore.”

Cesaire stared at him, aghast. “Why?”

“She left. She wanted to. After my mother died, she didn’t have a reason to stay. And she said she felt guilty living here when she didn’t contribute financially. I suppose it was awkward for her, because she had no other connections to us besides my mother.” He shrugged as he explained, as if this wasn’t a monumental change in his life.

“But she’s your grandmother! Surely that’s a connection.”

“Not to her. She left three months ago, Cesaire. It’s not important,” Enjolras said carelessly, waving his hand in the air and not looking up from his dinner. Three months ago? Cesaire was shocked at himself for not noticing her absence for three months.

“But she’s not here anymore.”

“Clearly.”

“You just accepted this?”

“It’s what she wanted. Obviously I couldn’t stop her.” Cesaire was still trying to fathom how on earth Enjolras could say this and simply not care.

“But she’s supposed to live here!”

Enjolras finally looked up at him. “Not if she does not want to. Things change, Cesaire, and this is a small change anyway, why are you having such a hard time comprehending it?”

“I’m not,” he snapped, resisting the urge to cross his arms like a child.

“Okay. Well stop talking about it. You didn’t even know her.”

“But - but she was always there, there was always this constant source of calmness here, now there’s not.”

“You don’t have to come here if you don’t want to.” He was maintaining a steady and disinterested tone throughout all of this, something Cesaire found impossibly annoying.

“That’s not what I meant. Forget it.”

Enjolras shrugged again and they were silent for a moment.

“There was something else I wanted to tell you.”

“What?” Enjolras asked, sounding thoroughly exasperated.

“This is a bit late, but that day after you stayed at my house and then you went home, and I was outside and-”

“I think you could have guessed what was going on,” he said coldly.

“No, no, I did - but you never said anything about it. You tried to hide it and-”

“Well obviously. I don’t need you and Hugon to-”

“It’s okay,” he interrupted. “I just wanted to say, that if anything like that ever happens again, you can tell us. We won’t think you’re weak for it. No one could ever think that.”

“Well she’s gone now,” he said bitterly. “So there’s no need to worry yourselves.”

“Okay. But if you’re ever in any trouble, you’re not burdening us by telling us your problems. I hope you’ll always tell us, the way you’d want us to tell you if something was happening.”

There was a long pause and Enjolras looked up at him. “Thank you.”

 

**October 19th, 1821 - La Maison de Cesaire**

 

In the evening on vendredi, Enjolras was at Cesaire’s house, both of them studying as usual. Cesaire’s father was out at work and and the house was dark except for two oil lamps on the desk.

Enjolras tapped his stylus on the wooden table. “What did you write for the questions on the second page?”

“Those are opinionated, Enjolras, I can’t give you the answer,” he replied without looking up. “You have to think of them yourself.”

“They’re stupid, who cares about this literary crap, it’s not useful.”

“Clearly our teacher cares, so I’d suggest you” -he pushed the book towards Enjolras- “start working on it.”

Enjolras groaned and was silent for a moment.

“We have the same opinions, just give me the answers. If we work together we can get this done twice as fast.”

Cesaire sighed and set down his copy of the book. “We’re not allowed to work together. You’ll never learn if I just tell you everything.”

“Clearly I learn fine when people just tell me everything, I’m doing great in school.” He pushed his book so it slid over to sit in front of Cesaire.

“Just read the chapter,” he said irritably, tossing the book back to his friend.

There was a clatter, a thud, and a yelp and Cesaire looked up. Enjolras was bent over.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing - the oil lamp just fell -"

"Oh, the oil lamp." He stared at the broken oil lamp lying a few feet from the drapes for a moment. "The oil lamp!"

"Not to worry, I'll clean it up, I'm sure it doesn't stain-"

"Enjolras, oil makes fire!"

"I know, silly, that's why we use it in lamps."

"Get away from there!" He jumped up and grabbed Enjolras's arm, attempting to drag him away.

Enjolras shoved his arm off and turned to look at him. "Relax, Cesaire. It's just a lamp."

"Enjolras you idiot we need to-" He stopped, looked behind Enjolras for half a second, then screamed. "Fire!"

Enjolras turned around and saw the oil lamp as it erupted into rather small and rather unimpressive flames. He jumped backward and almost knocked Cesaire over.

"What do we do!" Cesaire yelped, panicked.

"We - um -"

"Oh no, we don't know what to do, we don't know what to do!"

"Cesaire, you can't-"

"It's getting closer to the drapes, it's going to catch them and the whole house, run!" He was grabbing Enjolras's arm and attempting to drag him away from the fire that was not really close to the drapes at all. "Enjolras we've got to go!"

Enjolras looked terrified for a moment as he glanced back and forth rapidly between Cesaire and the fire that was slowly making its way towards the curtains.

"Come on!" His voice became higher pitched and more desperate as he clung to Enjolras's arm, trying to get out of the room. "We can't stay here! We're going to die! I am not going to die in a fire, I-" Enjolras clapped a hand over his mouth.

"You're not going to die by fire and neither am I. Your house is not going to burn down. Nothing bad will happen, but you have to calm down." His voice was steady and almost soothing. Cesaire nodded slowly and faintly and let go of his death grip on Enjolras's arm. Enjolras nodded and looked around the room for something to put out a fire. "We need water."

"Water won't work, it's an oil fire!"

Enjolras glanced back at Cesaire, who was beginning to shake violently. "No no, you can't get worked up again. You have to put out the fire."

"Don't waste time talking! We have to put it out, I have to . . ." Cesaire couldn't seem to think straight, his head was spinning and he squeezed his eyes shut to try to block out the buzzing noise.

"Cesaire." He felt hands on his shoulders. "You can't do this. Not right now. I don't know what I'm doing, I need you. You have to shut it out. You have to be calm. Imagine you're - you’re on a boat, in a crystal clear ocean, just waves." Cesaire breathed for a moment, then remembered and put his face in his hands which were now balled into fists.

"I'm not! This is stupid! We're going to be burned alive! Help! HELP!" They were wasting time here, they had to do something, he knew, but what, what could possibly be done-

"Cesaire!" Enjolras grabbed his hands with his own and pulled them away from his face. "I need you. Don't waste time. I need you to help me."

Cesaire shook his head. "No, no I can't . . . ."

"Cesaire. Just tell me how to put out an oil fire. I'll take care of everything else. You can - you can go to sleep afterwards if you want, but you have to tell me. I will solve this. But I need you. I need you, Cesaire. Please."

Something about the desperation when Enjolras said please made Cesaire open one eye.

"Good. Now just help me with one thing. How do you put out an oil fire."

Cesaire was having a hard time thinking, he felt as though there was a raging storm inside his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate but everything he tried to concentrate on just slipped out of his grasp. He could tell Enjolras was starting to panic as well; he didn’t want to show it, but he was still gripping Cesaire’s hands so tightly that Cesaire started to feel like his circulation was being cut off.

He tried to concentrate on that.

And somehow, magically, that didn’t slip out of his metaphorical hands, perhaps because his actual hands were being squeezed so tightly there was no way anything could slip. He could feel his head slowly begin to clear and tried to remember.

Finally, he slowly got to his feet. "Air," he said. "Fire needs air. Cut off the air."

Enjolras looked at him for a few moments and nodded. Moving quickly, he grabbed the nearest thing sitting on the table and covered the fire with it, smothering it and putting out the fire so fast that Cesaire was momentarily shocked. That didn’t take very long in comparison to the time it took them to figure it out. There was a pause, and Cesaire closed his eyes again.

"It's gone."

Cesaire opened one eye.

"There's no fire!" Enjolras laughed, nervous at first, then more. "We did it! We did it, Cesaire!"

Cesaire opened the other eye and smiled. "Yeah . . . yeah I suppose we did." Enjolras walked back over and clapped him on the back.

"Thanks."

"Oh I didn't do anything, I just panicked-"

"You knew how to fix it though. Without you we would have been burned alive."

Cesaire put a hand to his forehead. "Burned alive. Wow. Okay. That was scary."

"I'd say. But it's over now." Enjolras went to where the fire had been a few minutes ago and picked up the book he had used to smother it. The words on the cover were burned off and the red leather was charred. "Is this a solid excuse not to answer the questions?"

Cesaire laughed. "I'm not sure if she'd take it."

"'Teacher, I had a traumatic experience while doing my homework, I don't think I can ever read this book again as it will remind me of the incident,'" Enjolras said with a grin.

"Don’t think she’ll believe you." They began picking up the studying items on the desk.

"You'll vouch for me. It'll be fine." Enjolras gathered up the last of the books and headed for the door.

Cesaire leaned over the table to put out the other oil lamp. "Don't count on it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some French terms if you weren't sure:  
>  _vendredi_ \- Friday


	6. No One Would Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Is your life just one more lie?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever, I'm sorry I've been so slow but marching band season has been crazy, and it's short and super cliche and predictable but that's okay

**April 1st, 1822 - La Maison de Cesaire**

 

“I don’t want to live all the way to old age,” Enjolras said one day.

Cesaire glanced at him. “Why not?”

“Well when I’m old I cannot do anything. And dying of old age is so . . . boring.”

“Boring how?” He looked back at his book.

“What’s the purpose?”

“There’s no purpose, Enjolras, it’s just death.”

Enjolras sighed and rubbed his eyes. “So why die?”

“You don’t exactly get to choose,” Cesaire pointed out.

They were both silent for a moment, and Cesaire wondered why Enjolras was bringing this up.

“What if you had a choice?”

Cesaire lifted his head. “What do you mean?”

“If you could choose how to die. And when.”

“I’d probably choose not to.”

“Ah, you’d want to die eventually.”

Cesaire considered this. He supposed he’d want to die when he had finished everything he wanted to do. But Enjolras wanted to die young apparently, and he couldn’t imagine Enjolras ever finishing everything, he would just come up with something new to strive for; he was always pushing ahead.

“This is extremely morbid,” he came up with.

“It’s just theoretical.”

“Okay fine. I’d die of old age.”

Enjolras looked disappointed. “You wouldn’t want to die in a fight? Something exciting? Maybe saving someone. You could jump in front of a bullet.”

“If I have time to jump in front of the bullet, you have time to get out of the way,” Cesaire replied.

“You don’t want to be remembered?”

“I want to live a very full and very normal life, then die peacefully.”

“I wouldn’t call a life full if it’s normal.”

“No. I guess not.” Cesaire shut his book. “How would you die?”

“I’m not sure, I’ve been thinking a while, and I don’t know. But definitely more exciting than old age, Cesaire, that’s so boring.”

Cesaire broke into his friend’s thoughts before he could come up with something new. “You don’t get to choose no matter what, so why are we discussing this?”

“I don’t know, I was just thinking about it and wanted to talk to someone.”

“How about you do something productive like study, instead?"

“Studying is boring too.”

“Everything is boring with you,” Cesaire groaned, but thankfully Enjolras dropped the subject.

 

**June-August 1822 - Paris, France**

 

Cesaire knew that his friend would always be there, except one summer. Enjolras told him, during the last week of school, that he was going away for a few months.

“To visit family,” he said. Cesaire just nodded. He coud survive without Enjolras, he just didn’t know what he would do, as in, he would be very bored.

So he went to the Paris library and read. A lot. History books, storybooks, novels, but mostly, mythology. It was fascinating, to Cesaire, these stories about fictional legends, and how much they related to the world he lived in; it was as though the authors, that lived so long ago, could see the future.

He had read a lot, after a month and a half, and he had an urge to try it for himself; he found, though, that he could not write well at all. He could flow words together and make it nice, but he had no creativity, he couldn’t think of characters or plot. Cesaire would sit down at the table, ready to put his ideas on paper, then he proceeded to stare at a blank sheet of parchment for half an hour before giving up.

Since his thirst for art could not be sustained through writing, he tried painting. He asked his father if he could buy some oil paints, maybe just a few colors, to try it, but his father refused point-blank to let paint into the house.

“It’s messy,” he said, “I do not need my floors stained with the stuff.”

But Cesaire wanted to put a picture on paper, he could vividly picture the scenes from his mythology and wanted so to see them, so he tried his hand at just simply sketching.

Cesaire found, to his delight, that he could indeed create pictures with the charcoal on parchment, and they were lovely pictures, he thought, and after sketching his visual of Achilles with the arrow in his heel, he realized something.

He realized that he suddenly understood Enjolras’s desire to leave a mark on the world. Because if Cesaire dropped dead, he would soon be gone. His family would die, his friends would die, and then no one would remember him. It would be as though he had never existed. He realized how terrifying this thought was to him.

He thought for a moment before signing the sketch “CR”, and then doing the same with the others. Now he couldn’t fade away.

A month and many drawings later, Enjolras finally returned from his trip, and as soon as Cesaire saw him, he began to laugh.

Enjolras seemed confused. “What is it?”

“Did they - did they not have scissors where you were?”

Enjolras sighed, glanced at his shoulder-length blonde hair and rolled his eyes. “I wanted to try it.”

“It looks like -” He broke off when he saw the glare on his friend’s face. “It looks like, uh. . . .” As he grasped for something to say that wouldn’t be offensive, his mind flashed to the mythology he’d been drawing. “Like the god of the sun.”

Enjolras stared at him. “What?” he asked incredulously.

 “You know, Pheobus Apollo. It’s Greek mythology. He’s the god of music and healing and sickness, and essentially god of the sun. He's kind of a jerk actually, but you're not a jerk, obviously-”

“I fail to see what he has to do with me,” Enjolras interrupted before he could go on.

“He had hair like yours.”

“How would you know?”

And so Cesaire explained the mythology he’d read and how he liked to draw scenes from the stories, how he pictured the characters in his mind and wanted to put them on paper, if for nothing else than to document his existence.

Enjolras shook his head, laughing. “You must have been really bored.”


	7. Will the Poor Eat Feasts?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Only a kid but hard to scare._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter because I feel bad about posting two in like three months.

**May 13th, 1823 - Rue Saint-Michel**

 

“Here.” Enjolras stopped in front of an old-looking café; Courfeyrac (previously called Vivien; he decided to shed his first name because they were a lot older now), Combeferre (previously Hugon and changed for the same reason), and Cesaire (who had not changed his name; perhaps he was naïve, but he wanted some way to hold on to his childhood) stopped with him.

“What’s here?” Cesaire asked.

“A café,” said Courfeyrac helpfully.

“Hopefully, our meeting place,” Enjolras told them.

Combeferre looked doubtful. “What makes you think it’s different than the last three places we tried?” Cesaire hadn’t been with them, but he guessed that Enjolras and Combeferre had already been scoping out places to hold meetings. They had been talking together at Combeferre’s home previously, but he supposed they wanted it to be more official now.

“Nothing, really. It just seems right.”

They entered the Café Musain. It was empty except for a little woman washing dishes behind the bar.

“Excuse me?” said Enjolras politely, tapping his fingers on the bar.

She turned around. “How can I help you?”

“Well, this might be a bit much to ask, but we were wondering if we could use your cafe, once a week maybe, to hold meetings.”

The woman squinted at him. “What sort of meetings?”

“Nothing bad.”

“‘Nothing bad’ probably means illegal,” she said.

Enjolras smiled slightly. “Not really.”

“I don’t want you chasing away the few customers we get with your rambunctious yelling. No.”

“Only a few customers come here?” asked Enjolras, raising his eyebrows; Cesaire supposed he probably had an idea.

“Yes,” she snapped.

“We could be customers, you know. Get the place running again. We’ll buy your drinks and won’t be loud, I promise.”

She stared at him for a moment, then sighed. “Fine. Just don’t do it here, people will be scared to enter. Head to the back room.”

He smiled and bowed slightly. “Thank you very much.” The woman just grunted and led them down a hallway to the back room.

And this began the first meeting of the little group of four. They spoke for two hours (they meaning Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac; Cesaire kept quiet for most of the time) about everything they’d been vaguely angry about for years, and Cesaire began to realize that they really were completely serious about what they were doing.

The meetings continued like this, with Cesaire in utter silence, for two months before he managed to work up the courage to speak his mind.

 

**July 4th, 1823 - Le Café Musain**

 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac had just left together and Enjolras was sitting in a chair, refolding papers they had been scribbling notes on. It made Cesaire sad to think that a year ago, he and Enjolras would be talking nonstop while cleaning up rather than sitting in awkward silence. This could have been partly Cesaire’s fault, because he didn’t speak in meetings, but he felt as if Enjolras should have noticed his disinterested silence and doubts, and asked him about it. But he couldn’t just wait for Enjolras to say something, so he had to bring it up himself, and speak with as much tact as possible, because that was how it always was. Enjolras spoke his mind and didn’t seem to care who he upset in the process, whereas Cesaire tried his hardest to make sure everyone, specifically his friends, was happy and unoffended by his words. Somehow Enjolras was the more effective of the two; funny how that works.

“Enjolras,” said Cesaire carefully, “before I speak I want you to know I agree wholeheartedly with what you are doing, and I am only trying to help.”

Enjolras looked at him suspiciously. “Okay.”

“You want to help the poor, the cold, and the hungry.”

“And the oppressed and discriminated and-”

“Yes, I know, but Enjolras, are you yourself cold or oppressed, or any of those things?”

Enjolras stared at him incredulously; he was not used to anyone disagreeing with him, least of all Cesaire. “What difference does it make?”

“It makes all the difference in the world; no one wants to listen to someone above them speaking as if they know what it is like for the lower class,” he responded.

“But that’s it, Cesaire, we’re not above them, and they’re not below us, and if they truly believe that, they will listen no matter what. That’s what the equality is all about; we’re all the same.”

“That would work in a perfect scenario, but the world has been like this for so long that I don’t think anyone quite remembers how to be equal.”

“They can learn.”

“Do you think, with your equal society, that everyone will be brought to the upper level of things? Or the lower?” he asked, changing the subject slightly. “Will the poor eat feasts in the dining hall or will the rich starve on the streets? There has to be a dividing line somewhere.”

“No, there doesn’t,” he argued, “you’ve just been told that for so long that you cannot see beyond what is here. The world doesn’t have to be like this.”

“Perhaps the poor do not need to be treated so harshly,” he conceded, “but there will always be a superior and an inferior; society would not work without it.”

“Then society is wrong,” Enjolras snapped back.

“Maybe so, but there isn’t much we can do.”

“But there is!” He was on his feet now. “That’s what this is about; there is something we can do! People out there, people like you, they think nothing can be done and life has to be like this, but they just can’t see! They don’t know, because no one has ever done it before, no one has dared to try.”

“But they have, Enjolras,” Cesaire said quietly. “They tried many times, but they are dead, so we don’t remember that they did.”

“Then this will be the first time they won’t. This is where it changes. This is where we make history, this is where we stand and this is where we fight. Because there is another world, a future world, a better world, and this is where we find it.” It was like there was a fire burning inside of him and Cesaire could see it in his eyes.

“How do you know that?”

Enjolras looked at him and Cesaire suddenly felt that the fire was burning through his soul. “I don’t. But if I die for this then I am still bringing us one step closer to that world. That is a good reason. I would die a thousand times for the future of France, without question. My life is nothing compared to what I hope to achieve.”

“But is it worth giving your life if it makes no difference?”

“It always makes a difference. Every word, every step, every life . . . every bullet.”

Cesaire stared at him for a moment. “What do you mean, ‘every bullet?’ Enjolras, you can’t possibly be considering-”

“I’m not considering.”

“Good.”

“I’m planning.”

“What?!”

“If you don’t think you are brave enough to join us - and this is something for those who care, so perhaps it’s not for you anyway - feel free to leave,” Enjolras responded, sarcastic and cruel.

“Maybe I will,” Cesaire snapped back.

Enjolras smirked. “Like you actually could.”


	8. Let Go Of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Crying at all is not allowed._

**June 30th, 1824 - Une Rue à Paris**

Cesaire had come to his decision. He knew what he had to do, but he didn’t like it. He was aware that this would hurt his friend, he knew they could never be the same again. So why did he do it? This was a question Cesaire asked himself all day while preparing himself for the conversation that would change everything. He concluded, as they walked out of the school, that he was simply a bad person.   

“Enjolras,” Cesaire said hesitantly as they neared his house.

“Yes?”

“Remember how you and Combeferre and Courfeyrac are going to that school?”

“The _École Supérieure de Commerce de Paris_ ,” he said proudly. “Yes, what about it?”

“I’m not going with you.”

Enjolras whipped his head around to stare at Cesaire. “What?”

“I said-”

“I know what you said. But why?”

“Oh. Well, I’m uh - I’m-”

“Yes?” Enjolras’ eyes were suspicious, as if he already knew what Cesaire would say next.

“I’m - I’m going to a different school - the _École Spéciale Militaire de Saint-Cyr_.”

Cesaire almost tripped when Enjolras stopped walking. The blonde boy of 18 years stood there then slowly turned his head and looked at his best friend in a way that made Cesaire pause. He’d expected his face to turn red, he’d thought Enjolras would yell at him, ask angrily, Why would you do that?, he’d expected him to walk away, to promise never to talk to him again, to say they could never be friends again. Cesaire had been prepared for this. What he wasn’t prepared for was for Enjolras to look at him with eyes filled with not anger, but fear.

Cesaire looked at the ground, for he could not bear to see the look on his best friend’s face and know it was his fault. Finally he murmured, “I’m sorry.”

Enjolras still said nothing for a moment, before he finally choked out, “Why?”

Cesaire sighed. “It’s not you. It’s just - I have to earn a living somehow, Enjolras, and maybe the military and government aren’t as bad as you think.”

Enjolas narrowed his eyes and shook his head, he opened his mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out.

“I know you want a republic. But Enjolras - this is how it’s supposed to be. France is thriving with the leaders it’s had over the past few decades. Why change it?” The words hurt him to say, only because he knew they would hurt Enjolras, considering how fiercely his friend believed in his vision.

“No,” Enjolras said finally, his voice shaking slightly. “This is wrong.” He looked at Cesaire as if to say, ‘You don’t have to do this.’ _But I do._

“I’m sorry, if I had a choice -”

“You have a choice, Cesaire,” Enjolras said coldly. “You just think you don’t, because that’s easier for you than actually choosing.” There was a long pause.

“Not everyone thinks the way you do,” Cesaire said gently. “Perhaps this way of living is better.”

“No!” His voice was stronger now. “It might be better for you, but you have to think of people other than yourself.” He spat the word ‘yourself’ as if it disgusted him. “Take a walk in the slums, you could see why we need a revolution. People everywhere are starving and freezing, and no one helps them. You could join me, but alas, you choose to be ignorant, indifferent. I should have known.”

“A different system of government won’t give them food.”

Enjolras had nothing to say to that, but rather than concede and admit that Cesaire had a point, he continued as if there had been no interruption. “You have only ever known the rich, Cesaire, only known the comforted life. You don’t understand.”

“But have you known any different?” Cesaire said quietly.

Enjolras was silent for a moment as if dumbstruck, then said, “I don’t need to experience it to care.”

“I never said you didn’t care.” Cesaire disagreed with his friend on many accounts: he thought it was hypocritical for him to say such things as ‘You don’t understand’, he thought his friend was too angry already; but he knew Enjolras cared. He always cared.

“You don’t care though, do you Cesaire.” It wasn’t a question.

“I care. But I think your revolution will make it worse. Revolutions kill more people than they help. How do you know a republic would help France anyway?” He would have kept going, but Enjolras interrupted him again as if he couldn’t stand to hear these words.

“You’re a close-minded fool, Cesaire!”

Cesaire took a moment to digest that. “No Enjolras. I’ve listened to you for many years, and I’ve listened to others, and I’ve formed my own opinions. I have seen what happens to revolutionaries, and I have seen the good it has done, or rather, lack of.” He took a deep breath. “Enjolras, you don’t want to hear this, but you’ve got to grow up. Everyone learns to let go -”

“I am not a child who needs to grow up!” he spat. “I know what I’m getting into. I know what I want. And maybe everyone letting go is exactly the reason the world is as it is today. Because everyone lets go, everyone just gives up, because they can’t deal with it, they don’t know how, and they become someone like - someone like my mother, they become tired - and - and insane, and drunk and they stop caring. I won’t stop caring. I am not going to give in.”

Cesaire wasn’t sure how to respond. “What happened to your mother isn’t going to happen to you just because you let go of childhood dreams-”

“Don’t you dare -” he was spluttering with rage, “don’t you dare say that my mother or I had childish dreams, how could you of all people just trivialize it like that-”

“I’m not trivializing anything,” he said, remaining as controlled as possible. “I’m just saying that maybe-”

“Maybe I should give up? The way you are? Because you are giving up, that’s what this is, and you’ll be the one who stares at a wall for days and gets drunk like that will reverse your insanity and goes picking fights at bars as a way of sui-”

Cesaire grabbed Enjolras’s shoulders and resisted the urge to shake him because he knew that would be taken as a threat. Instead he said, in a calm voice, “Neither of us is going to go insane. We’re just - we’re going our separate ways. Maybe - if you can’t let go of your dreams, you’ll have to let go of me.” This was a terrible thing to say, and he regretted it as soon as it was out of his mouth.

Enjolras nodded very slowly. “It seems you’ll have to let go of me first.” It could have been a joke, if not for the cold voice. Cesaire quickly took his hands off Enjolras’s shoulders.

Enjolras nodded. “Then it’s time for us to go.” He looked away for a second then straightened up and said curtly, “I understand what you are saying. I can see your point of view, and I respect your decision.” He sounded in pain as he said those words, and then there was a pause. “I hope you’re happy.”

“You too,” Cesaire said, then glanced up at Enjolras to see blue eyes looking at a point just past his shoulder. “Are you - are you okay?”

His friend murmured something unintelligible.

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras almost jumped and nodded. “Yes,” he said before turning and entering his house.

Cesaire stared after him for a moment. Enjolras was a liar.

 

**September 2nd, 1824 - Une Bibliothèque à Paris**

Cesaire was at the library, standing behind a shelf of books, the other side of the bookshelf concealing two people he had been studiously avoiding for three months.

Cesaire put his ear to the side of the shelf because he thought he might be able to hear better this way. Eavesdropping was wrong, but he had to know.

“Look, Enjolras, you can’t take it personally,” Combeferre was saying.

“But how-”

“He’s not trying to hurt you.”

“I suppose that’s just a side effect of _betrayal_ ,” Enjolras said bitterly. This was shocking; Enjolras was never bitter. It was just one of his things; bitterness makes the world worse, or something to that extent.

“You have to separate your dreams from yourself. Hating your dreams is not the same a hating you.” Cesaire was affronted. He never said he hated Enjolras’s dreams, he just didn’t agree. “You can’t keep doing this, Enjolras, people will always abandon you, they’ll always turn away from you. You have to be able to get past it.”

“So what you’re saying is I shouldn’t get too attached.”

“Well, not exactly-”

“Because if I let myself be close to someone, they’ll just betray me. Nothing will ever work out for me, is that it? The world hates me? The people hate me? So I should hate me too, right?”

“Enjolras-”

“Because I know that. I know most things don’t work out the way I expect them to. I know no one believes in me and I know there’s a chance that everyone will abandon me the way he did. But I don’t think it’s ever over, you should never just give up. I think there’s always a chance. I think - I know that everyone is good, somewhere deep - deep deep down. Even Cesaire. If I could make him understand what is really happening, what he’s doing - he’s not a bad person. He can’t be. I mean, I wouldn’t be a friend to someone - someone who’s not - I just - right?” Cesaire wanted to leave but he couldn’t seem to move his head.

“Enjolras, you’re right, no one is truly completely evil, and especially not Cesaire. You two are different.”

“I won’t believe-”

“But you have to accept it. You have to accept that he’s not going to follow the same path as you. Not many people will.”

“But I can’t be the only one. There have to be people out there who will - there have to be people like me.” He sounded almost hopeless and this was something Cesaire could not listen to any longer.

He stood up, grabbed a book and turned towards the exit, and before he was out of earshot he could hear Combeferre saying, “No one is quite like you, Enjolras.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some French terms if you weren't sure:  
>  _École Spéciale Militaire de Saint-Cyr_ \- The Special Military School of Saint-Cyr  
>  _Ecole Supérieure de Commerce de Paris_ \- A business school in Paris  
>  _Bibliothèque_ \- Library


	9. The Past Would Be In The Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Look down, upon your fellow man._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, yay. Definite change of pace in this one and in the ones leading up to the end. Enjolras makes less appearances and it's all even more depressing. Grantaire makes an appearance but I'm really bad at writing him, so he's under his first name Achille. Anyway, I hope to have it all done by the end of the month.

**July 3rd, 1827 - Saint-Cyr-L'École, Yvelines, France**

His name was Jacque now.

Cesaire was gone.

Cesaire was left behind. Jacque had left him standing in the Parisian streets in front of a mansion with a walkway and garden, staring at the blue door that concealed his best friend and wondering if the decision he’d made to change his life forever was really the right one.

But it doesn’t matter what is right, he thought, because it’s done. And I’m here.

It was Cesaire who entered that campus but it was Jacque leaving it. The old life doesn’t matter, he thought, it’s gone, the past is dead. That had become his mantra in the years here, and he repeated it every morning and every night and every time that any face from the past appeared in his mind. Aurélie, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Rose, Enjolras - they didn’t matter.

They were gone. And soon Jacque would be stationed somewhere far away, and get up at sunrise each morning to eat and resume his post somewhere in whatever city he was placed in, and he would find new people to talk to, and they’d laugh and joke like grown up people are supposed to do, because Jacque is grown up now, his childhood is gone and so are the people in it, and then each night he would go to sleep and dream of whatever it is normal people dream about, and the past would be in the past and he would never see anyone from it again.

 

**July 8th, 1827 - Paris, France**

Paris. It had to be Paris. He couldn’t be stationed in - Africa or somewhere, anywhere but here, he’d guard the gates of hell if he didn’t have to return here. Here, where it was so easy to see a relic of before and remember everything, because he didn’t want to remember anything at all, he had spent the past three years making sure it was gone.

But there was no choice here. Jacque had learned that already, he had known all his life, really. So he had to stand guard every day outside the house of some Paris resident who apparently required surveillance.

He managed to stay only in one place on his free time, and never wander towards any of his old haunts, for about six months. But finally as he was taking a walk, Jacque accidentally happened by the Cafe Musain. It had been a while since he had set foot near there, but he knew the Musain, and if it was here, then his house was only several blocks away. This was unacceptable. He couldn’t be here, it was too close, there were memories in that cafe and down the road, so he turned to go and saw as he glanced through the window, the back room door was half open.

No, no, he wouldn’t look, he couldn’t do that, but he did, he stepped towards the glass pane and squinted and he could only see the back of a few unfamiliar heads for a moment, before Courfeyrac walked past the door opening and Jacque could feel the shock going through him. Courfeyrac hadn’t changed, but it had been almost four years and Jacque wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand here.

He knew this was a bad idea but his feet felt rooted to the spot, watching silent talking. After about a minute, someone with black hair and shadows under his eyes walked past the door for the third time and spotted Jacque. They looked at each other for a moment, Jacque still unable to move, then the man tapped on the shoulder of someone next to him as if to get their attention. Whoever it was must not have cared, because no one came to the door to see who was outside.

Suddenly Jacque pictured how awful it would be if someone he knew did see him, standing outside and watching them. What would they think? That he was stalking them? Spying for the government, maybe? Gone insane? Or worst of all, what if Enjolras thought he was trying to come back?

The realization of what a horrible situation that would be suddenly hit him and Jacque’s eyes widened and he turned to go, trying not to run, the only thought in his head was he had to get as far away from here as possible, and never return.

Except what he realized a few days later while standing guard, was that he couldn’t just never return. He had only seen the back of Courfeyrac’s head while he was there but that had still somehow made the dull pain in his chest become an aching, stabbing pain that never left. It was like there had been a hole ripped in him when he abandoned his friends and after all the time he’d spent sewing it back together, it was suddenly reopened.

He had to talk to someone, anyone, from before, just so he wouldn’t be alone. This was a terrible idea, he knew, but telling himself the past was dead was useless now, because the past wasn’t dead, it was very much alive and it was probably in a class taking notes at this very moment.

 

**Febuary 17th, 1828 - La Corinthe, Paris, France**

Jacque hesitated only a moment before taking a deep breath and entering the dark bar. It was mildly crowded, but he didn’t see the man he was looking for, so he sat down on a barstool and waited.

He glanced around again. There was someone two seats to his left with an empty wine bottle in front of him, working on his second. Jacque shook his head slightly at how ridiculous that was, then looked to see an older man three seats to his right with a shotglass and some friends.

He really, really shouldn’t be here.

Jacque had made it three minutes with no one talking to him until the man to his left, after finishing his second bottle of wine, clapped his hand on Jacque’s shoulder.

“Why are you here?”

Jacque straightened up and lightly moved the man’s hand off his shoulder. “I’m waiting.”

“Aren’t we all,” the man grunted, then continued, “You look far too fancy to be at a shitty bar like this.”

“I wouldn’t usually be here, but I have business to take care of,” Jacque replied curtly, even though it wasn’t really business.

“In a bar?” He laughed, and his laugh was not like anyone Jacque had met before, it was dark and raspy but somehow - warm? Was that the right word? “Strange business.”

“Yes, well as it is my business-”

“Do you want any wine?”

“What?”

Jacque could not see his face, but he could guess the man was rolling his eyes. “Wine, yes, wine, do you want any?”

The military officer opened his mouth to refuse then closed it. “I suppose.”

The man nodded and threw down more money on the bar. “One bottle of your finest wine.”

“You really don’t have to-”

The man shook his head. “It’s no problem. You look like you have a lot on your mind, it could help.”

The wine arrived with two glasses and Jacque looked at it, sighed, poured it, then took a sip. He drank a half a glass, then set the last of his wine back on the table. The man next to him was smiling.

“What is your name, good Monsieur?” Jacque asked, simply to be polite; after all, this man had just shelled out a good amount of money for his sake.

The kind man poured more wine and seemed to think about this for a moment. “Achille.”

“I am called Jacque, thank you for the wine.”

Achille shook his head. “Not a problem, _mon ami_.” He moved his head closer to Jacque, squinting, to see his uniform. “Officer, huh?”

“Oh - yes.” This brought Jacque back to life, and he suddenly remembered why he was here.

Achille nodded sleepily and muttered something that sounded like, “ _Ange_ wouldn’t like that.”

Jacque took a moment to think about this, but he wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean. _Ange_ meant angel, but why would the angels not like him?

Before he could ask, Achille was already headed towards the door, waving to someone on his way out, then the person Jacque was waiting for arrived almost as soon as Achille had left.

Combeferre threw a shred of parchment onto the table. On it was a note scribbled hastily and handed to him that morning by a student he had never seen before on his way to class;

_"Meet me at the Corinthe at 21h. I want to talk to you._

_-CR.”_

He sat down. "What do you want to talk about?"

Jacque suddenly realized that he hadn’t thought about this at all. “Not one thing in particular, exactly, just wanted to . . you know . . . talk,” he said awkwardly. There was a long pause, and Jacque glanced at Combeferre. “You’re angry with me.”

“Of course I am, we all are," he said stiffly.

He nodded a few times and paused. “You’re not like Enjolras though, that’s why I asked you to come here, you don’t hate me.”

Combeferre turned to face him. “No, I’m not feeling the way he is, and neither is Courfeyrac. Cesaire -”

“Jacque.”

“Right, sorry. He doesn’t hate you, he’s feeling betrayed. You turned on him and made it clear you didn’t believe in or care for any of what he’s been working towards..”

“I didn’t -”

“Whatever you meant, Cesaire-”

“Jacque.”

“-whatever you meant, that’s how it looks to him,” Combeferre finished. “And” -he looked away for a second- “to the rest of us.”

Jacque sighed. “But just, separate yourself and your ideals for a minute, can’t you all see I still care about you?”

Combeferre looked at him for a long moment. “I can see that. But I don’t think Courfeyrac wants to and I don’t think Enjolras even has the ability to separate himself from his ideals. You know that, Cesaire-”

“Jacque.”

“-it’s how he’s always been. His dreams are him, and when you said you didn’t care, you were saying you didn’t care about him. That’s what he thought anyway,” he added hastily at the end when Jacque opened his mouth to interject.

“Could you tell him-”

“No,” Combeferre interrupted before he could finish. “He doesn’t even know I’m here. He doesn’t want to see you." He stood up very formally, brushed himself off, and nodded curtly. "I’m sorry, Cesaire." Jacque didn’t even bother correcting him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some French terms if you weren't sure:  
>  _Mon ami_ \- my friend  
>  _Ange_ \- angel


	10. If You Were Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The trees are bare and everywhere the streets are full of strangers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are nearing the end I'm afraid.

**September 26th, 1828 - Un Café à Paris**

Jacque was drinking tea in a cafe at around 16h and someone sat down next to him.

“I wanted to apologize.”

“What?”

Combeferre sighed. “I was rude to you last time I saw you.”

“No, no, it’s fine, I deserved it.” He set down his tea.

“No you didn’t. You haven’t done anything wrong, Jacque, I want you to know that.”

“You called me Jacque,” said Jacque, vaguely shocked because this was the first time any of his old friends had called him by his last name.

“Well, it’s your name now. And it’s your life. And I respect that.”

“Thanks. It’s nice to hear.”

“And I know what you’re afraid of,” Combeferre said abruptly.

“Excuse me?”

“You think you broke him.”

“I think no such thing-”

“Come on, Cesaire - er, Jacque - I know you. You think you ruined the fire and compassion he had, but you didn’t. I want you to know that.”

“Combeferre, I really doubt-”

“Nothing has changed.”

“How can nothing have changed?” Combeferre made to interrupt him again but Jacque shook his head. “We knew each other for twelve years. And I abandoned him. How can he not be affected by that?”

“It’s not because you didn’t matter-”

“Don’t try to tell me that. Don’t say that he isn’t affected then try to convince me that I mattered.” He knew he was being ridiculous. Did he want Enjolras to be ruined by him, just to know that he mattered? He considered it then decided he preferred not to answer the question. Jacque tried to leave but Combeferre grabbed his arm.

“Jacque. Listen to me. You mattered. I know you did. I just meant that he hasn’t gone bad because of what you did. He’s an optimistic person, and he doesn’t dwell on the past. You know that. You know him better than anyone.”

“Not anymore.”

“He hasn’t changed.”

“Really?” Jacque said skeptically.

“Really. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Fine.” He sighed. “I need to go now anyway, I’ll see you - some other time.” He stood up again, grabbed his bag, and headed for the door. This was not a conversation he had been prepared for, and it would be best to get out of it so he could think.

“He misses you.” Jacque turned his head around to look at Combeferre. “He doesn’t want to admit it, but he does, I can see it.”

Jacque nodded, because he didn’t know what to say, then left. That was the last time he saw Combeferre for almost four years.

**January 29th, 1829 - Un Restaurant à Paris**

Jacque had just finished dinner at a restaurant-slash-bar and was about to leave when he noticed someone vaguely familiar spinning on a barstool.

“Hello,” he said, slightly nervous because this was a terrible idea, approaching the bar.

Courfeyrac stopped spinning and looked at him expectantly. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Jacque said, confused.

“I know who you are, I just - four years of silence and you just say ‘hello’.”

“I know, I didn’t -”

“Cesaire -”

“It’s Jacque actually -”

“Don’t think I’m -”

“Look, if you hate me now it’s -”

“That’s not what I -”

“Because really -”

Courfeyrac put his hand over Jacque’s mouth to stop him. “It’s alright. Combeferre told me he talked to you a few months ago, he told me what you said.”

“And?” Jacque was desperate to know what Courfeyrac was thinking.

“And I was angry with you for a long time, I admit - still am, come to think of it - but I forgive you.”

Jacque let out a sigh of relief. “Good, I thought you were going to punch me or something.”

“Still might,” Courfeyrac said, smiling now. “But it’s good to see you.”

Jacque felt the air lighten considerably. “Good to see you too.”

“So in that conversation of interruptions, I thought I caught you saying you’re going by Jacque now?”

“Oh yeah. See we all go by last names generally,” he explained, “in the, uh . . . .” He suddenly remembered who he was talking to, and that even after four years, the fact that he was in the military was still going to be an awkward subject. “Uh, how have you all been?”

Courfeyrac coughed then smiled and said, “Oh you know, the usual. Combeferre’s been thinking, I’ve been recruiting, Enjolras has been - revolutionizing.”

“Is that even a word?” Jacque asked, laughing slightly.

“I dunno.” There was silence for a moment. “He’s different now, than he was in school, you know,” Courfeyrac said quietly, suddenly somber.

"Different how?” Jacque remembered Combeferre’s words and immediately began to fear that he had been lying.

“Not in a bad way - he’s just as – just as passionate as ever, all ideals and hope and such. He’s angrier about it now, and a bit less - I dunno - open.”

“That’s my fault, I assume,” Jacque said dully. He knew this already. It was nothing new, but it still hurt, just a bit. A knife being twisted a bit more each time.

“Well yeah, probably. But he’s older too.”

“Older?” Enjolras had always seemed a child to Jacque, so this was interesting.

“Yeah. That’s about it, I just figured you might want an update. If you were wondering.” There was a long pause. “I think just, everything reminds him of –” he stopped himself. “Of the old life.” Jacque knew that wasn’t what he was going to say.

"That must reflect badly on you, I suppose.” He sighed. “Sorry.”

“Well no, he doesn’t resent any of us, he trusts us and we’re his friends, he wants to believe the best of us. Given, he’s a bit more closed off now, but I don’t think he could handle having no one, it’d be too hard for him.”

Jacque let out a cold laugh. “Wonder what it’s like to have no one.”

“That hurts,” Courfeyrac replied, and Jacque thought he was joking at first but he wasn’t.

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I just mean, he must be crazy, to trust anyone after that. I would be completely paranoid, you’d think he would at least be wary.”

“Well he is, but he’s smart too, Jacque, he isn’t going to shut everyone out, and he knows most of us aren’t like – well –”

“Aren’t like me,” Jacque finished. Of course Enjolras would be too careful to be close to anyone like him ever again.

"Yeah,” Courfeyrac said awkwardly, and turned his head, looking at something to the left of them. “Well!” he said, standing up. “That was fun but I must be going. Goodbye, Cesaire Jacque.” He held out his hand to shake.

Jacque stood as well. “You’ll be coming back though? I’ll see you again?” The way his friend had said goodbye seemed very final.

"Well – er – no.” Courfeyrac sighed. “Look, we’re planning a revolution, Jacque, and as it gets closer and closer we simply can’t speak to you anymore.”

"What – why?”

"You’re a military officer.” He said it like it should be obvious, but it wasn’t obvious to Jacque. “You work against everything we’re doing.”

Oh. Of course. Military. The revolution. He’d forgotten, he’d been too comfortable sitting here talking to Courfeyrac, and now he remembered that Courfeyrac was an enemy. And he, Jacque, was an enemy to them.

"I’m sorry, Jacque, I have to go, it’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just – well –”

"Just what?”

Courfeyrac glanced to the left. “Enjolras knows I’m here.”

Jacque nodded. Of course Enjolras wouldn’t want his friends talking to a military officer, especially if that officer was him. It made sense, but it hurt. Again.

“I mean, he doesn’t know you’re here, or that I’m talking to you, I don’t think, but he left to go -” Courfeyrac broke off and Jacque had just enough time to register the fact that if Enjolras didn’t know he was here then it was indeed Courfeyrac who decided he couldn’t speak to Jacque again, when Courfeyrac looked to the left again uneasily, then his eyes widened. “Oh no, don’t you –”

Jacque was confused for a split second then he felt something grab his collar and shove him against the bar. He saw a flash of gold and silver out of the corner of his eye then there was a voice in his ear.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Get off me!”

“We are planning a revolution. You are planning its downfall. See the problem, Jacque?” he said mockingly. “Now get out of here, and don’t come back. You don’t talk to my friends. You don’t talk to anyone I know. Got that?”

Cesaire could only see a few blonde curls that happened to be in his eye, but he knew Enjolras was seething, his face was probably red and his eyes would be narrowed into slits. “Enjolras I’ve told you –”

“I don’t want to hear that you’re sorry,” hissed Enjolras, using the hand on Jacque’s collar to shake him, “you made your decision four years ago. If you were sorry you wouldn’t be wearing that uniform.”

“I wasn’t going to say I was sorry!” Jacque shoved Enjolras off of him and faced him directly, suddenly acutely aware that Enjolras, for some ungodly reason, was holding a knife in his left hand. “I was going to say that – that I – I still care.” He took a deep breath. “I fight revolution because it’s revolution, and it’s my job, not because of you. And whatever it might look like, I still care about your friends, I still care about your people, and I still care about you, because you are still and will always be my best friend.”

For one tiny fraction of a second, Enjolras’ eyes softened, and one could look closely and see regret and sadness mingling in the blue gaze, but Jacque did not see and that second was gone and the emotion in his eyes was replaced by the cold, furious determination that had been there for four years.

“I am not your friend,” he said, his voice deathly quiet but raising with each syllable. “I do not care about you. I will never forgive you.” He held up the silver knife, and Jacque was not afraid, because he knew what would happen, as Enjolras slammed the knife into the wooden table. “Leave.”

“What?”

"Get. Out.”

“Enjolras -”

“Get the message, Cesaire! I never want to see you again.”

Jacque felt like he’d really been stabbed, he took a breath sharply and his chest felt empty. He opened his mouth to say something, then thought better and closed it. Enjolras turned away from him and Jacque turned to leave. Courfeyrac stopped him by the door.

"The knife,” he began, “sorry it looked like he would stab you, I didn’t know he’d go off like that. I didn’t even know he brought it.”

"No, it’s alright,” Jacque said, though it wasn’t, and he was still slightly shaken.He shook his head and continued, choosing not to ask Courfeyrac why he brought Enjolras with him in the first place then proceeded to talk to Jacque knowing full well that Enjolras would be back soon. “I knew he wouldn’t hurt me.” He looked back at the blonde head determinedly facing away from him. “Enjolras would never hurt me.”


	11. Save Them With Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There are storms we cannot weather..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter! It's super short but the last one will be longer! I can't believe it's almost over, I was so sad writing this, these characters have started to mean so much to me. Note: the revolution referred to is the July Revolution of 1830.

**July 30th, 1830 - L’appartement de Jacque**

Jacque was sitting at his table, eating breakfast, when a letter fell through the mail slot.

He stood up and went to the door to retrieve the letter. He slit the top of the envelope and a very legal-looking document fell out.

“To Cesaire Jacque (relation: son),

It is our regret to inform you that your relative, Marc de Jacque was fatally wounded in an accident occurring during a rebellion on mercredi, 28 juillet 1830 at approximately 11h45. He was dead at 12h. Services -”

But Jacque had stopped reading. He didn’t need to know any more. He knew what had happened on the 28th of July, and the 27th, and the 29th. The revolution. His father was a civilian death. A civilian. Did those rebels care, he wondered, if their rebellion had killed an unknown man in the street? A rich man, an opposer of the revolution? They wouldn’t care, he thought savagely, of course they wouldn’t. Anyone against them doesn’t matter. The cause comes first, before anything, before love and family. He had heard it a thousand times.

“This is what revolution does,” he said to no one in particular. “It kills innocent people.” He threw the letter on the ground. “Innocent people! Don’t tell me that you want to save the people when you let innocents die in your stupid revolution!” Jacque picked the letter up again and began ripping it to shreds. “Nothing! He did nothing wrong! But he doesn’t matter to you, does he? Nothing but your cause!”

When the letter was in a satisfiable number of little pieces, he started throwing them in the fire.

“What about equality, huh? Equality means everyone’s equal, it means everyone matters! You’re such a _hypocrite!_ ” He threw the last of the shreds into the fire. “You’re all the same! You’re too wrapped up in your ideals, you don’t have time for people! People aren’t one big group, one big object to save! They’re individuals and you can’t save them with blood! You just can’t!”

Jacque slammed his fist on the table and flinched; he had shattered a glass of water. He felt sick as he looked at the blood on his hand; he had seen so much blood during his time in the army that anything red made him want to throw up, but he just groaned and sat down heavily, then began picking the glass shards out of his hand.

 

**August 12th, 1830 - La Plus Petite Maison à Paris**

One day, Jacque had another break and he took another walk. He walked for a while, not paying attention to where he was going, and after almost two hours he ran into a place from the past; he ran into a little house covered in vines.

His mind was suddenly flooded with memories of clouds and fairytales, of wolves and rainclouds and dragons and flowers and _Le Chat Botté_.

It had been so long, but surely they were still there. Desperate to remember, he walked to the front of the house and knocked on the door. There was no answer, but Jacque remembered when he was younger, that Monsieur Mabeuf said he could come in any time. Hoping that this still applied, he pushed open the door.

It was unlocked and the room was almost just as it had been twelve years ago. The shelves and rug had not moved, the window was slightly open and casting light in the same place on the floor, but there was one thing different. One thing that Jacque could never have imagined happening. There were no books.

Well, there were a few books. He looked around to find there was still a copy of a book about birds, the same one Rose had a long time ago; some novels that must have been Mabeuf’s favorites, such as _Evelina_ , and _Le Sorcier et l’Épée_ ; and all the books were rather old, the most recent one was _Cinq-Mars_ by Henri Coiffier, published in 1826, four years ago.

He ran his hand along the shelves. There was no dust, and all the books were recently used. Mabeuf still lived here, but he had gotten rid of his books for some reason.

Jacque was hit with a sharp sadness that almost caused him to fall over. Father Mabeuf loved books. What could have possibly happened that he would need to sell almost all of them? And for his most recent book to be four years old, this was unheard of; M. Mabeuf got new books every day. He had never been a rich man but this was unfathomable.

This made Jacque start to wonder. He himself came from a wealthy family, could he have prevented this? How did he not notice, even back then, even at ten years old? Was it because he didn’t pay attention, he was too wrapped up in his own trivial problems that he didn’t care about Mabeuf? The way he hadn’t cared about his parents, Rose, Enjolras?

He began to walk to the other side of the room where he used to sit and read, but on the way he tripped over the rug, hitting his jaw on the shelf. He was planning on lying there on the ground for a minute feeling sorry for himself, when he noticed a book on the bottom shelf, an old book, so covered in dust so that it almost blended in with the wood. This was curious, because nothing else here was dusty; Mabeuf would only keep a book, he thought, if he planned to read it a lot. This one looked like it hadn’t been touched in a long time; fourteen years, in fact. Jacque reached for the book to examine the cover.

_Les Contes De Fées de Charles Perrault_.

Jacque leaned his head against the wooden shelf, and sitting on the floor of the tiniest house in Paris, he opened the book and began to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some French terms if you weren't sure (there's a lot this time because I forget if I already defined them for you in previous chapters):  
>  _mecredi_ \- Wednesday  
>  _juillet_ \- July  
>  _La plus petite maison à Paris_ \- The smallest house in Paris  
>  _Appartement_ \- Apartment  
>  _Le Chat Botté_ \- Puss in Boots  
>  _Cinq-Mars_ \- The 5th of March  
>  _Le Sorcier et l’Épée_ \- The Sorcerer and the Sword  
>  _Les Contes De Fées de Charles Perrault_ The Fairytales of Charles Perrault


	12. Look What's Become of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is all I have lived for. This is all I have known._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some French terms if you weren't sure (this is at the beginning so that it doesn't make the ending super anticlimactic):  
>  _La Intersection Entre_ \- The intersection between  
>  _On est laid à Nanterre...(etc)_ \- The song Gavroche sings before he dies. It has a translation but I don't feel like translating it. It's just a song that is a parody of conservative views about the French Revolution. The translation is in the book.  
>  _L’etage Deuxième de Corinthe_ \- The second floor of the Corinthe

**June 5th, 1832 - Paris, France**

It has been a long time.

It has been almost four years since his last meeting with Courfeyrac. Almost four years since he’s seen any of them. After visiting Mabeuf’s house, Jacque learned he should never go back, never return to anywhere from before.

And he managed it. He never came closer to his old - not home, it is not home, just a place he grew up, not connected to him in any way, at least not anymore - never came closer to that place than Rue la Chanvrerie. But he didn’t go down that road, he just looked at it each time he walked by, for a little while, then he stopped looking and it stopped existing.

So he stayed away. And in his time away, Jacque has become a different person. Well, no, he isn’t a different person. He is still there, but he is a rock. Harder than rock, iron. Except iron is strong. Jacque is more like ice. He is cold and dark and unforgiving and so solid but so broken.

Those people don’t matter anymore, the ones from before. He doesn’t think about them. The hole in his chest has been filled with stone. He is breakable everywhere but there.

That stone doesn’t move at all, even after he sees death and despair all around. Jacque has turned away from starving children because that is what he has to do. And he didn’t feel a thing.

Then one day, General Lamarque died. Four days later, his funeral is held, a procession that marches through Paris, and Jacque, along with the other officers, walks behind the coffin, holding laurel branches. They were ordered to bring their weapons as well, in case there are “interruptions”. The thought seems ridiculous to Jacque, because the people love Lamarque, they wouldn’t disrespect him by starting a riot at his funeral. But it is his duty and so he does it.

But his superiors are right, as they generally are, and there is a disruption at the funeral.

This is nothing new, these attempted revolutions. Jacque doesn’t think for a moment that this one could possibly matter.

At first he doesn’t notice anything. Barricades are built, as they always are, backup is called in on their side. Jacque’s friend Michel is placed in his section; Michel and Jacque met at a bar and were vague friends, they didn’t see each other much because of their respective positions, but Michel is the artillery guard and Jacque winds up right next to him.

Then he does notice Enjolras on the barricade, leading it of course, his hair golden and short now, much shorter, and Jacque is reminded of the time he made fun of Enjolras’s hair and ended up comparing him to Apollo, and he thinks that his hair looks much more like the real Apollo than Jacque’s sketches so long ago (though who can say what Apollo would actually look like, it’s not as if he really existed, but he looked like the one in all the books). But when he notices Enjolras at first, he doesn’t feel anything. No dread or anger or hatred or sadness. Nothing.

And this scares him most of all, later on. He doesn’t care. He really has turned to ice if he knows that someone who was once so important to him will die today and feels nothing.

That’s when someone is really gone, he thinks, and he doesn’t know if he is referring to Enjolras or himself.

 

**Later - La Intersection Entre Rue la Chanvrererrie et Rue Mondétour**

“I don’t believe it,” says Michel, sighing as he returns to his place next to Jacque.

“What happened?”

Michel shrugs. “I suppose it isn’t that out of the ordinary nowadays. They shot a man in a window, a porter, for not letting them in. As if not wanting to harbor rebels is deserving of execution. This was before the barricade. I was just thinking how it’s interesting, they call us savages.”

Jacque is silent. Savages, what a word. It sounds inhumane. He must admit the French government can be rather savage, but so can everyone. Clearly so can the revolutionaries. He’s been asked if he has any sympathy for the rebels but he can’t say he really does, when they do things like this, and for what?

Their batallion starts talking louder and someone is giving orders.

“What’s going on?” Jacque mutters to Michel.

“Their leader wants someone to put a flag up,” Michel replies, rolling his eyes.

“Why does he care so much that there’s a flag?” Jacque wonders aloud, mostly to himself.

“Beats me, but the sargeant says whoever goes up there to raise the flag is going to be shot.”

Jacque shakes his head sadly. “What a waste of a life.”

“Yeah. And anyway, if he wants a flag up so badly he should do it himself, get this over with sooner.”

Jacque nods vaguely, thinking about this. Why would Enjolras send someone else to put up a flag if he knows they are going to be shot? If he does know the stakes, then he is much different than he had been when Jacque knew him. The Enjolras back then would never have sacrificed someone else’s life over a flag, he would have either done it himself or not bothered at all, Jacque thought. What had become of him in the eight years they had been separated?

“ _Vive la revolution! Vive la republique! Fraternité! Égalité! Et mort!_ ”

It is Father Mabeuf.

“Retire!” yells the sargeant. Jacque is panicking and frantically thinking, what can he do, is there anything he can possibly stay to stop this madness-

“Long live the republic!” Mabeuf repeats.

“Fire!”

And before Jacque can even say no, there is a shot and Mabeuf falls to the ground, then rises again and drops the flag before falling backwards, dead.

The men around Jacque are silent. After a few moments, Michel whispers, “He said, ‘brotherhood, equality, and death’. I thought it was supposed to be ‘brotherhood, equality, and liberty.”

Jacque is suddenly reminded of words from another man, from somewhere else, a man who said “Give me liberty or give me death.” Maybe Mabeuf knew there was no chance of liberty, so he chose death.

One by one the soldiers begin talking again and Jacque remembers that he never got to buy Mabeuf’s book, the one about trees. He had promised he would buy it when he was ten years old and now it is too late. Mabeuf will never go back to that house, Mother Plutarque will sell the remaining books, and the empty shelves will collect dust and the stone will be hidden completely by vines and everything that happened there will be forgotten.

Then Jacque is only able to formulate one other thought, one horrible thought that makes his blood turn to ice.

It is Enjolras’s fault.

 

**Later, à la Barricade**

Jacque can see Enjolras and Combeferre at the edge of the barricade, talking, Enjolras holding a gun.

They are glancing in his general direction, the gun pointing the same way. The grapeshot flies over head and Michel is reloading his gun next to Jacque.

Jacque tears his gaze away from the barricade for a second and is leaning over to Michel to say something, to ask how long they’ve been here, when there is a shout from the other side of the battalion and Jacque jerks his head back, looking to see where it had come from.

It takes less than a second then there is a yell from Michel and Jacque spins around. Michel has fallen and at first Jacque is unable to comprehend the bullet wound in his forehead. But then he does realize what has happened and he can only focus on Michel’s open eyes, blank and glazed over and looking at the stars.

He drops to the ground, because that can't be right, he only looked away for a second. If he hadn’t turned towards the other side, the bullet might have hit him instead, and he sees, at the barricade, that Enjolras is reloading his gun again, not looking up, and for a moment he gets the eerie feeling that the shot was meant for him, but he shakes it away.

A few soldiers pick up Michel’s body to move it out of the way. Some of the men watch, most look very upset; Michel was a friend to all of them. It was hard not to be friends with him, he was a very cheerful person, always telling jokes and making people feel better. He was going to be married when he finished in the army, Jacque remembers. But now he won’t.

This makes him think, _What will I do when I’m done here?_ He supposes he’ll never be done, not if he can help it. And it’s not because he likes it (although as professions go, an officer isn’t that bad), it is because he doesn’t know what he’ll do after he leaves. _I don’t have any skills_ , he thinks. He isn’t good at speaking to people, so working in a shop would be out of the question. Factory work is a steady job, but after everything he’s done, Jacque can’t imagine doing something that boring every day. No one would imagine being a soldier to be an enjoyable profession, but at least it’s exciting. M _y feelings might change after today though_ , he thinks, but shakes away the idea. Thinking about the very near future is not something he wants to do.

And isn’t he supposed to get married? Isn’t that what everyone else does? Settle down, have children? But how can he possibly have children, that’s a terrifying thought, what if they turn out like the people on the barricade? Or worse; what if they turn out like him?

 

**June 6th, 1832 - À la Barricade**

Jacque, along with the other soldiers, awakens the next day to see that the barricade has been strengthened during the night. Apparently unphased by this, or simply too angry to bother with thinking, their captain, Captain Fannicot, orders a surprise attack. The soldiers slam the barricade full force, but perhaps they are tired today because they lose more than they gain. The twenty men at the front are shot easily by the insurgents, and the army is told to retreat so the rebels take this chance to reload and fire at them again before they can get out of range. The cannons, having not been told to stop their grapeshot by the captain, continue firing, and hurt their side more than the barricade. Captain Fannicot is among the casualties; his own fault, technically. But with so many casualties on their side, namely their captain and lieutenants, there are few able to take charge but Jacque himself. Not that this means much; the battle will be over soon.

They continue to barrage the barricade with cannon fire until the street is filled with smoke like fog. Jacque, having not been in a leadership position before, is unsure of what to do besides continue their attempts to break the barricade down.

There is sudden gunfire next to his left ear. Jacque jumps at the noise and looks to see a sergeant he doesn’t know, firing through the haze at a figure in front of the barricade. Jacque squints to make out who it is he’s firing at, but he can’t see well enough to be alble to tell. Then he hears singing.

“ _On est laid à Nanterre, c’est la faute à Voltaire. Et bete à Palaiseau, c’est la faute à Rousseau._ ”

It is a child. There is a child in front of the barricade. He puts his hand on the sergeant’s shoulder.

“There’s no need-”

“There’s every need. Let go of me. I’m trying to aim.” Just this statement makes Jacque shudder. They are aiming guns at children now?

“He’s harmless. You can’t kill someone that young.”

“We can’t show weakness. It doesn’t matter how old he is.” The sergeant pauses in his reloading for a moment to look Jacque. “They’re all kids. We shouldn’t be killing anyone at all, but look where we are. At what age is it appropriate to kill these children?”

Jacque looks at him carefully, and then at the little boy, then towards the barricade. He slowly nods.

“ _Je suis tombe par terre, c’est la faute à Voltaire. Le nez dans le ruisseau, c’est la faute…_ ”

 

**Later That Day - L’etage Deuxième de Corinthe**

“There’s only one left!”

Jacque hears the sargeant shout this and immediately knows who it is, who is left. Who else could it be?

They find him in the second floor of the building next to what was the barricade; standing in the corner of the room, his head held high, because of course, _of course_ Enjolras would be proud to die. He wouldn’t want to die afraid; a coward’s death. His damn pride would never allow it. And seeing him there, Jacque thinks he feels no sympathy. Whatever Enjolras says, this is no one’s fault but his.

The soldiers holding the guns are not to blame, the way Enjolras thinks they are; the soldiers are doing their job. He made those people do this. He made them risk their lives for a lost cause, and he had to have known it was a lost cause, or he’s more naive than Jacque had thought, because how could he have though that fifty people could have taken on the entire French army?

_Because Enjolras is a child_ , he thinks savagely. _He is a child who always got what he wanted and never grew up._ He knows this is an unfair thing to say; Enjolras has had his fair share of hardships, but he doesn’t care. Because Enjolras got them into this mess, and he can say it is Jacque’s fault all he wants but it doesn’t change the fact that he is leading this rebellion - or he led it, it’s as good as over now - and people are dead because of him.

But he can’t be thinking about Enjolras and the petty disagreements between them. The man standing in the corner of the room is no one he knows. This is someone who caused Mabeuf’s death and the death of that little child, whose men murdered that man in the window, and who shot at Jacque during the battle and hit Michel instead. He is a killer. No one to take pity on. This is not the lonely child he knew, this is not the same person. This is someone hardened by life and pain and battle who somehow still believes; the most dangerous person of all.

But he, Jacque, is also dangerous. He is also a killer, whatever way you look at it, he is always a murderer. For a moment he feels like he can’t breathe. And he remembers.

“Wait!” He doesn’t mean to, but pictures from his childhood are running through his mind and the word comes out and Jacque is not sure what he plans to say next, how he will explain himself. Enjolras determinedly does not look directly at him, though Jacque is sure he knows. But now the sergeant is looking at him curiously, as are the other soldiers, and he has to come up with something to say that isn’t suspicious.

“Do you wish your eyes bandaged?” _Look at me._

He no longer knows what is right and what is wrong, what is real and what isn’t.

“No.” _Look at me._

He is no longer Cesaire, he isn’t even Jacque, he is a monster, he has left everything and everyone behind.

He struggles for something else to say. “Was it you who killed the artillery sergeant?” _Look at me._

He started his life as a blank sheet of paper, not much to him at all, a simple little six-year-old boy who collided into a blond kid while running down the street, not knowing that child would change his life; not knowing that the bright boy who hated his name would someday hate Cesaire as well; not knowing that he, Cesaire, would end that child’s life, the way he had drowned the cats; not knowing that not-Frèdèric would cease to exist sooner than he should, and no one would remember him but a lonely military officer who murdered the only person that mattered, until he was gone too and Enjolras was vanished from the earth forever, and there would be no one left to remember him, and he might as well never have existed.

“Yes.” _Look at me._

But he had existed, and whatever he said now, whatever had happened between them before, whatever anger he had and would always have, Jacque would be willing to live a thousand years simply to make sure he was never forgotten.

Enjolras does not meet his gaze and before Jacque can say anything else, or be interrupted by the sergeant, there is a shout, “Long live the Republic! I’m one of them.”

It is someone Jacque vaguely recognizes, not from the barricade, but somewhere, though he isn’t sure where. The man who yelled crosses the room to stand next to Enjolras.

“Finish us both at one blow.”

Maybe he knows it is not his decision anyway, but he feels like it is, like it should be, this should be his burden, and Cesaire Jacque’s head is spinning as he holds a gun with shaking hands, a gun that has become him, because he could never be himself when he was alone.

_It’s for the best._

_I wanted a friend._

_I hope you’re happy._

_Ange wouldn’t like that._

_Me and you, mon ami._

_He doesn’t want to see you._

_We’ll free the country._

_I will never forgive you._

_We’ll change the world._

And then Enjolras did look at him, looked him directly in the eyes and Jacque felt a jolt of shock run through him like thunder.

_I’m sorry._

The smile was not finished before the report was heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was honestly emotional for me to write, I'm so attached to these characters. But that is the end so thank you for reading, any kudos or comments have meant a lot. Additional feedback is always appreciated. :)  
> I'll see you next time I write something, but it could be a while cause this was hard to write and involved a lot of research and reading parts of the brick over and over. I have some ideas for ExR fanfictions but I'm basically romance/sex-repulsed and can't write those things. If anyone wants to help with them though, I'd be super grateful cause I love writing about these characters.  
> Please visit me on Tumblr at miss-gaylinda-upland.tumblr.com. Thanks!

**Author's Note:**

> You can come visit me [on Tumblr](http://maybe-god-doesnt-believe-in-you.tumblr.com/) if you'd like! (url is subject to change so if I forget to update uh sorry)  
> Please leave feedback, thanks!


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